


Thankless Child

by KingOuija



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Parental Dynamic, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Do Not Archive, Elias's characterization sacrificed for whump, F/M, Humiliation, Jon has sex but not with Elias, M/M, Powerlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOuija/pseuds/KingOuija
Summary: Jon missed out on a lot growing up without a father. Elias is out to rectify that. (Jon, Elias, and Bad Dad tropes)





	1. Caught Smoking

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: smoking, poisoning, vomit, workplace bullying, sexual harassment

When Jon came back in through the side door after his smoke break, he kicked the doorstop out of the way and closed it before he realized Elias had been waiting for him in the hallway. Elias's arms were crossed over his chest and he radiated displeasure. Jon had never seen that look directed at him before. Had he been away from his desk longer than he'd thought? It had only been a single cigarette.

"Jon, I'm told we have an artefact that didn't make it to Artefact Storage."

Jon, confused, wondered whether Elias had been distracted when they'd last spoken about it. "The table that was delivered last week has been processed and added to inventory. I just checked on it the other day."

"Not that, Jon. Turn out your pockets." _Turn out your pockets?!_ Feeling like some scabby kneed truant, he obeyed. He took his cigarettes from his pocket first and, seeing Elias's expectant outheld hand, gave them to him. Elias pocketed them, then his hand came out again. _Will I be getting those back?_ Jon nearly asked, but Elias's expression killed the words in his throat.

"Keep going, Jon. We haven't got all day."

Jon reached into his other jacket pocket, finding a crumpled receipt. He tentatively reached out to place it in Elias's hand.

"Not that." Elias grabbed the paper, balled it up, and flung it toward his face. Jon flinched. "Your trouser pockets."

"Elias, really…"

Jon had no idea what Elias hoped to find, but he was bristling at the treatment and starting to look forward to laughing in his boss's sheepish face when he turned up nothing. Jon reached into his left pocket, then theatrically pulled it out to demonstrate its emptiness. Then reached into his right.

"I don't suppose you need a light?" Jon asked, brandishing his lighter.

Elias took a blue nitrile glove from his own jacket and pulled it on, then extracted a zippered sandwich bag.

"Put that in my hand." Jon obeyed, watching Elias take the lighter in his gloved hand, drop it in the bag, and then hold the bag by a single corner.

"You sure you should be handling that without tongs?" Jon asked sardonically.

"Come now," Elias said, turning away. "We're taking this where it would've gone if you and Martin weren't a couple of hopeless bumblers."

Jon felt like he'd been slapped. It took him a stunned moment to follow Elias down the hall.

Elias led them to Artefact Storage, where he spoke to the man doing item intake--some new person whose name Jon hadn't bothered learning yet--and handed over the bagged lighter. The man promised they'd subject it to the regular battery of tests.

"I'd like that back, when you're done," Jon said crossly, "provided it survives testing."

The man directed a skeptical grin towards Elias, and Jon, for the first time, wondered whether he'd missed something important. He quieted, face heating.

Instead of offering any further explanation or sending him back to the Archives, Elias indicated Jon should follow him to the elevator. They rode to the third floor in silence, Jon's anxiety mounting.

What _was_ it about his lighter? It was just a lighter, though of course a very pretty one, with its delicately etched gold case. One he'd regret losing because of its sentimental value.

_Sentimental value?_ Jon's mind whispered. What sentiment?

He liked it. It was his. He'd been given it--he must have been given it--by someone he cared about, hadn't he? Unless he'd bought it on some special occasion or some special place. But when had he got it? Had he had it in college? Four years ago when he was a regular smoker? His mind worked away at the incongruity of _sentimental value_ and, by the time Elias ushered him into his office, he'd figured it out.

"Elias, I can't apologize enough. If it hadn't been planted in my desk drawer…but that's no excuse--"

Elias let him ramble for a while, before indicating he should take a seat across the desk.

"What do you--what do you think it was meant to do?" Jon worried. "Do you think...was any harm done? I've only been using it for a few days, after all."

"We'll have a better idea of that once Intake finishes their testing." Elias's tone has softened. A wave of relief passed through Jon.

"Will-will there be any sort of disciplinary--"

Elias reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a ring binder. "I want you to review the safety manual sections on spotting and containing suspicious books and objects. Go ahead and do it now, while I've got you. I'll leave it to you whether and how Martin should be disciplined. You said you felt the lighter had been planted--"

"It's extremely unlikely it was intentional," Jon rushed to explain, feeling ashamed he'd blamed poor Martin for his own stupidity, "I'll have him review the procedures, as well. I'll have everyone review them. It's remarkable what that lighter does to your mind. From the moment I touched it, it became like something I'd always had. Completely taken for granted."

"You seem shaken," Elias said, far more warmly. "Here. Why don't you have a cigarette?" Elias reached into his pocket, giving Jon back one of his own. Jon took it with a baffled smile.

"You're serious?"

"Go ahead. We'll open a window." Elias scrounged up his own lighter from his desk, the longnecked type used for lighting fireplaces. "There you are. When I started here, you know, everyone smoked inside the building. Everyone. You can still see it on some of the old ceiling tiles. They're stained yellow from the smoke."

"Hmm," Jon said, taking a drag. He wondered whether he was expected to express approval toward the good old days. He liked being made to go outside to smoke--having the excuse to leave the building a couple times a day for some legitimate cause. Jon got up to open the window, but Elias preempted him. He settled down again to read the manual.

About halfway through the section, Jon realized a green glass ashtray had appeared on the desktop. He tapped his ash into it.

"Alright. That seems clear enough," Jon said when he finished. "I knew it already, really. I suppose I got complacent after all those years spent in Research."

"You don't get a lot of 'misrouted deliveries' on the second floor."

"Never."

"We will be taking a deeper look into that delivery service, rest assured. And Intake should be following up shortly if they have any lingering concerns about your exposure to the artefact. But if it's what I think it is, all it wanted was your attention."

"Thank you, Elias," Jon said a little timidly, "I'm sorry I was…resistant when you confronted me."

"Quite understandable." Elias smiled. "It must have felt like a mugging."

"I'll just be heading back--" Jon got to his feet, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette in the ash tray, but Elias stopped him.

"Go ahead and finish that one, Jon."

Jon did, while Elias worked away at his desktop computer. He still hadn't swapped out the bulky old beige CRT monitor. When Jon had come on board, Research had still had a half dozen of the things, but they'd slowly been phased out. Hazard of working for a nonprofit--things got used hard until they fell apart. It was a philosophy Jon respected. One he observed with his own belongings. But it was telling the Head of the Institute had the least impressive tech setup in the building. That, though his suits were always immaculate, they weren't especially expensive, and he wore them in the same predictable rotation every week. Jon felt a little surge of fondness. He stubbed out his cigarette.

"What's on your mind, Jon?" Elias asked, looking up from his work.

Jon told him in the least fawning way he could manage. Without mentioning Elias's suits.

Elias slapped the top of the monitor, smiling. "I think I'm just old fashioned. And for what we spent for the equipment, we _should_ get twenty years' use from it." Looked closer to thirty, Jon thought. Elias took out another of Jon's cigarettes and lit it. Did _he_ smoke? Jon wondered, slightly panicked, whether Elias intended to keep the rest of the pack. Well, it's not as though he could complain about it.

Instead, Elias reached toward him with the cigarette, clearly expecting him to take it.

"Thank you," Jon said, waving him off, "but I really should get back downstairs. I've still got to talk to Martin, after all, and they'll all be expecting me back."

"Take the cigarette, Jon. I'll call down and explain."

Explain what? thought Jon as he held the fresh cigarette in his fingers. He watched Elias grab the phone handset and key in the extension, feeling the ground shift beneath him. He'd said there'd be no punishment for the lighter, hadn't he? Had Jon misheard? Misinterpreted?

Jon let himself imagine for a moment Elias blindfolding him and pulling out an executioner's pistol like in an old cartoon. Standing him up between the bookshelves.

Elias had reached Tim. Jon could hear his deep voice as a burble from the handset. "I'll have Jon in a conference for the next hour. Two at the outside." Elias huffed a laugh in reply to some joke, eyes briefly meeting Jon's. "Not at all. Glad to hear it."

He hung up. "There," he said to Jon, "I've bought you the time you should need to finish the pack."

Jon's stomach dropped another foot. He forced a smile. "Elias, you can't be serious."

Elias pulled out the pack and shook it. "Fifteen cigarettes left. Three to five minutes apiece, I imagine. It shouldn't take more than an hour or so, if you apply yourself." He gestured to the object smoldering in Jon's fingers. "Go ahead. Put it in your mouth. We both hate to see things go to waste."

Jon pushed his chair back, "Elias, I…what's the point of this? You can't want me to--it's liable to make me sick."

"There you are, Jon. You answered your own question." Elias smiled. "I knew you were bright." He gestured again. Jon was still. Elias reached out his hand, placed it beneath Jon's, and began to guide Jon's hand toward his mouth. Jon finished the motion on his own to spare himself the indignity of having his boss puppet him any further. "There you are," Elias said, pleased. "One of fifteen."

"You're upset I'm smoking."

"I thought we had this taken care of, Jon, with our initiative three years ago. We had twenty smokers at the time--well over the rate of one in five Britons--but we all worked hard to get it to zero, and we've kept it at zero ever since."

Jon knew otherwise--knew Tim, for one, would have the occasional cigarette on a night out--but he didn't think it'd help his case to say so.

"This isn't necessary," he said, clearing his throat. And he was telling the truth. Buying this pack had been a passing fancy--one he could barely understand now. "That's the first pack I've bought in three years. It would cost me nothing to just throw it away. I don't intend to buy more."

"That may be the case, Jon, but I'm a great believer in experiential learning. Lessons fade without scars." Elias looked proud of that line. Jon wondered whether he'd coined it. "Now don't just let it burn away. I want you to give it a good suck. Let me see your cheeks hollow out."

Jon obeyed, burning paper crackling audibly with his inhale. The watchful satisfaction in Elias's flat grey eyes itched at him, and he was suddenly filled with a helpless fury, bigger than his body could hold. He exhaled a giant plume of smoke, stubbed out the rest of the cigarette, and stood.

"You've had your fun," Jon said, struggling to control his voice. "I'm going back to work." If he hadn't heard Elias's quiet "Jon" at the door, if he hadn't turned back, things might have gone better. But he did turn back.

"Jon," said Elias again, "I know you have a curious mind. It's one of your most charming qualities. But I promise you, you don't actually want to know what will happen to you if you walk out of that door right now."

Elias didn't have to be any more explicit than that. Jon had just finished reading the relevant section of the safety manual. Employees who don't observe responsible safety protocol when dealing with unknown books and artefacts were subject to immediate dismissal at their supervisor's discretion. _Less than a year in the job and rightfully fired for incompetence..._

Jon returned to Elias's desk and began cigarette number two. Actually the fourth of the day, he reminded himself. By five-seven, he realized his strategy of sucking them down as quickly as possible to get the ordeal over with wouldn't be tenable.

Elias continued working away at whatever he'd been doing on his keyboard, favoring Jon with the occasional approving glance. His mood seemed to brighten as the room became hazier. Or maybe his cheer was rising in proportion to Jon's resentment.

At eight-ten, Jon finally spoke. "That's just over half way," he said. He kept his voice carefully calm. "I'll be honest, Elias, my chest is getting sore. My heart keeps racing."

"I can promise you it doesn't hurt like late stage lung cancer." But there was no reproach in Elias's voice. It matched the mild cheer of his expression. "Stay with it, Jon."

When Jon was working on 11-13, Elias pushed his chair back, stretched, and went to make himself some tea. "Would you like anything, Jon?"

"Water," Jon's voice was quiet and rough, "would be appreciated."

Elias didn't leave the pack behind, of course. He'd never removed it from his pocket, reaching in for each fresh cigarette. Jon could, however, get rid of the one he was smoking. And he did, as soon as the office door closed behind Elias. He threw it out the window, as far clear of the building as he could, and then hung his weight on his arms, sucking in the outside air.

The air still held a hint of chill despite the sunny sky, and the wind had a freshness it usually lacked this close to the river. It was hard to imagine now that only an hour before, Jon had been lazing against the sunwarmed brick of the Institute enjoying a cigarette, wondering why he'd ever bothered quitting. One ever so often was harmless, after all, and it made such a good excuse to get out of the basement!

Jon thought about leaving while Elias was gone. He thought about destroying the lighter or throwing it after the cigarette, as if that would end the ordeal. He instead settled for trying to walk around the office a little to clear away the dizziness and train his heart back into a regular rhythm, but gave up before Elias came back.

There was no question of heading off the sickness now, Jon thought, as Elias settled in across from him with his cup and saucer, and placed a bottle of water on a coaster in front of Jon. He was already sick. The point where whining for mercy could have done him any good was past. There were four more to go. Get them done without any fuss, and at least he could save a little face.

Jon drank some of the water, pacing his consumption in small sips for his stomach's sake. Everything between the back of his throat and the pit of his guts felt like it had been bricked up. He saw Elias raise his head from his typing, look at Jon, open his mouth in preparation to say something like _best get on with it, Jon,_ and headed him off.

"I'm ready for the next one."

Elias lit it and handed it over. Jon thought he seemed pleased at Jon's initiative, and felt a little charge of satisfaction.

Looking at the old fashioned dial clock on the wall, Jon was surprised to see not even an hour had passed. Elias had estimated correctly. After the break and water, 12 was dispatched easily. Jon wondered if he could call it a second wind.

Perhaps if he stood and smoked by the window, alternating drafts of fresh air, the last three would go easier. He shifted in his chair, putting just enough weight over his feet to realize he couldn't stand without wobbling, and decided to stay seated rather than let Elias realize how weak he was.

Jon's world narrowed to the cigarette between his fingers, between his lips, breathe in breathe out. Watch Elias type. Furrow his brow. Move the mouse in a little arc. Type a little more. Repeat. Notice the smoke alarm dangling loose from the wall and wonder when Elias had taken the batteries out. Look back at the clock on the wall. For some reason, Jon fixated on the length of a movie. A bad movie. Eighty minutes of misery, and he'd be free. He could lie down, cry, be sick, write a complaint to HR, write a resignation letter.…

Where his mouth and throat had been too dry before, now they were too wet. He could feel 14-16's filter softening between his lips. Elias asked him something. He made a noise of acknowledgment, and another cigarette was placed in his hand. He didn't realize he'd neglected to stub out the last until it burned his fingers.

Jon managed to flail it into the ash tray without damaging Elias's desk, but after that, his heart wouldn't calm down.

You're not going to die here, he told himself, squeezing his eyes closed. Don't be ridiculous. He found he could think a little more clearly in the darkness. Well, you won't die from a little hazing, he corrected himself. It was one pack. Gram smoked a full pack every day of her life, after all. Sometimes in a single sitting, when she had her bridge friends over.

He thought of his first stolen cigarette, at one of those parties, at the age of twelve or so. Her friends had laughed at the sight of the prim child he'd been trying to look like a street kid. Gram had laughed in spite of herself, then put on the correct kind of disapproving face and swatted him. He'd kept doing it, though, and it'd become something she first tolerated with a roll of her eyes, and then a tradition. She'd hand him a cigarette--never more than one--and deal him in. As he got older, he learned to get the laughs he'd once earned with his odd precocity by merciless mockery of their husbands, instead. Those old men, he realized, had been no older than Elias was now.

Something inside him flinched from the idea of mocking Elias, even in his mind.

Jon had finished the fifteenth. He opened his eyes. Lowered his hand slowly toward the ashtray with what he hoped looked like poise instead of dizziness, and ground out the spark. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed before attempting speech.

"That's it."

Elias stretched his mouth in what could have been regret or suppressed delight and made an equivocal noise. "Not quite, Jon."

The cigarette he'd thrown out the window. He wanted to yell in fury at the idea Elias knew somehow. Would he be forced to go outside and get it off the sidewalk? If he went outside--if he could make it outside--he'd keep walking and never return.

But Elias had a different idea. His clean, long-fingered hands were extracting one of the butts from the ashtray. The one Elias had told him to suck.

"You cheated me on this one." Elias relit it and passed it to Jon. "Go on. Almost there."

Jon intended to. He really honestly intended to. But the fact that it was trash, that it was crumpled a bit in the middle, that when he put the filter in his mouth he could taste his own lips on it, defeated him. His ribs collapsed into the center of him and his stomach clenched and he vomited what felt like vinegary sand across Elias's desk.

The next thing he knew, there was a hand on the back of his shirt lifting him from the chair and helping him stagger through a door he'd never been through before, and then lowering him over a toilet. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears trying to burst out, and his nose was smoke-deadened, but he sensed instantly it was immaculately clean.

Then it wasn't.

Bile and snot and tears ran out of him in drips and strings. He groped blindly for toilet paper and a roll was placed in his hand. He'd wipe his face, another wave of filth would surge out of him, and then he'd wipe again. When he could finally see again, he saw vomit on the seat and vomit on the bottom of the lid, and none visible in the bowl beneath the giant mound of crumpled white paper. The overhead light was off, which was a relief to his head, but there was still ample visibility. Jon could see Elias's legs beside him. Had he been standing over him the whole time, watching?

Jon first impulse was to apologize for the mess he'd made. He managed to suppress it. His second was to cry, and there was no stopping that one. He felt like he'd never be well in his body or mind or soul again.

A hand touched his hair, and it hurt his skull, made him want to whimper, but then felt blessedly warm and gentle as he acclimated to the touch. "Jon?" Elias's voice. "If you're done vomiting, I've a towel here."

Jon took it and held it. It was thick, soft, and white. His face still felt too dirty to be allowed to touch it, so he just squeezed it in his arms.

"I can get your water."

The idea of his lips touching the bottle and tasting the spit and nicotine he'd left behind made his guts spasm. But he was empty inside, and all it did was made his eyes throb harder for a moment.

"Or if you can get up, we can have you drink from the tap."

With Elias's help, Jon struggled to his feet. All he'd seen of the man the last several minutes was below the waist. Even standing, Jon didn't want to look him in the eye.

Jon wasn't angry. Wasn't even afraid, really. He didn't know how he felt, except weak and tired. He limply allowed Elias to remove his jacket and shirt.

"I'll get these cleaned and back to you."

Jon thanked him before he realized he shouldn't, and Elias hung the dirty clothes from a hook on the back of the door. Jon should be embarrassed, standing in front of his boss in just a sweat-soaked vest, but he didn't feel that way either.

Elias coaxed him into washing his hands and face and drinking from the tap, putting out a steadying hand whenever he wavered, stroking his clammy back through his vest the rest of the time.

His own face, in the mirror above the sink, looked like an assembly of greasy mismatched parts. One eye had burst a capillary. He saw Elias in profile behind him, and toweled his face dry before Elias could turn and meet his eyes in the glass.

"I'll call down and tell them not to bother you for the rest of the day." Elias said, when Jon was ready to leave. Jon wanted to ask him to say nothing, but just nodded instead, and crossed the gauntlet of Elias's office, still full of smoke and vomit, to the door.

Jon made his way to the basement by elevator, and then went to document storage, not caring his own blanket had long since been swapped out for Martin's bedding. Not caring he had to step over Martin's dirty laundry and around his minifridge. He fell asleep with his shoes on.

He awoke later to them being removed. Jon flailed in panic before the soreness of his abdominal muscles sent him collapsing onto his back.

"Whoa! Easy there!" A voice said, "You can keep them." Martin. Fucking Martin trying to take his shoes. Martin had been trying to work by the light of his phone, but gave it up and turned on a small lamp on a nearby box. He did a double take at the sight of Jon.

"Jesus, Jon! What happened to you?!"

"I got sick unexpectedly." His voice both sounded and tasted like it was coming up from the bottom of a dirty drain. But he was otherwise….better. His eyes and muscles still ached from vomiting so hard, but the soul sickness, the forever-sickness, was gone.

"That's what Elias said. We all assumed you'd gone home. And then I come to bed and find you already here." Martin paused. He seemed to be waiting for an explanation Jon was damned if he'd give.

"You're welcome to it, of course," Martin went on hurriedly, "The bed. The couch in Reception's actually quite comfortable."

"Thank you, Martin." Jon wasn't sure what time it was, but he had the feeling if he managed to get himself home, he'd have a slim chance of returning tomorrow. Martin smiled softly and ducked his head at the thanks.

"You sound rough," Martin went on, stroking his own throat in sympathy. "I'll get you some chamomile and honey."

Jon managed to toe his shoes off while Martin was gone. He pulled his belt off as well. Better to stay otherwise dressed, though, he thought. He was technically in someone else's bed. God, he supposed he'd have to clean the sheets. His sweat was rancid with nicotine.

The tea was too hot and too fragrant, so he asked for water instead, then put the tea on a high shelf where he wouldn't have to smell it when Martin was out of the room. At least he found he could walk fairly steadily again. Martin returned with the water, and sat with him quietly as he drank it, wastebasket close at hand. His stomach accepted it gladly this time. He was asleep again before Martin returned with a second glass.

The next day, Jon didn't want to think about what had happened. He found his jacket and shirt hanging on the handle of the door when he opened it that morning, swathed in drycleaner's plastic. Jon wore them only because he had nothing else, pulling them on after a quick sink-bath. They mostly contained the reek of his body, except when he turned his head or moved his arm a certain way. He managed not to snap at Sasha when she asked after his health and then didn't manage not to snap at Martin.

He wrote a resignation letter.

The next day, after a shower, a sleep, and a second shower at his own flat, he reread the resignation letter and hated the person who'd written it, so threw it away and continued not to think. He did manage to make Martin review the unknown artefact containment procedure, despite his protests that he'd had nothing to do with the lighter. He seemed to believe it had always been Jon's.

By the next week, it seemed ridiculous that he'd ever considered quitting over such a trifle.

After Jane Prentiss attacked, the matter was forgotten entirely.


	2. Explain Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings: unreality, workplace bullying, panic attack, public humiliation, gaslighting, forgiveness, mild violence and mind invasion

The basement level breakroom had been prepared in advance. Jon noticed the 'meeting in progress' sign on the outside of the door when Elias ushered him in. The long plastic folding table where he customarily ate his sack lunches had been pushed up closer to the wall. Behind the table, a whiteboard had been newly hung. His assistants were arrayed at the table beneath it. They looked up when he and Elias entered. Tim's face was stony. Sasha wore her customary pleasantly professional expression. Martin grimaced at him apologetically.

It felt like a tribunal, and Jon was certain it was meant to. There was no fifth chair for him to sit at. Also by design, he was sure. Fine. It'd make it less of a production to walk out, if he had to.

Jon had been braced for a serious confrontation since the first time Elias had spoken to him several weeks before. He'd been expecting to be put on a performance improvement plan, or forced into therapy, or fired outright. He'd not forseen Elias would make it a group effort.

"You're not in trouble, Jon," The soothing note in Elias's voice made Jon want to spin around and head back for the door. "Do come in."

As Elias took his seat behind the table, Jon took a steadying breath and hit the record button on the recorder that had become his constant companion since his return to work. The purr of the tape dropped his shoulders and straightened his spine. He stood fast in front of four pairs of enemy eyes.

"You don't mind if I record this, I trust." he said hotly.

"Well, to be honest," said Tim, unimpressed, "that's one of the things we wanted to talk about."

Elias raised a subduing palm toward Tim. It wasn't lost on Jon how closely they were seated. That Tim's louche sprawl angled him toward Elias. "Let him record. I'm sure we'll all appreciate having an objective record to review at the end of these proceedings."

"And what is the nature of 'these proceedings?'"

Elias blinked cool grey eyes, "It's time to tie up your investigation of Gertrude's murder into a neat little package and deliver your conclusions to the Metropolitan Police. Then, we can leave the matter in their capable hands and return to business as usual."

This...wasn't what Jon had expected to hear. He kept his mouth shut as Elias continued. "You've had three months to investigate, Jon. Four if, as I suspect, you kept yourself busy during your convalescence. You've harried us enough. We'll examine the evidence you've compiled _together,_ decide on the likeliest culprit--"

"Or culprits." Jon injected.

"Or culprits," Elias allowed, "and then I'll make you a personal introduction to my friend, Chief Inspector Kaugery, who's heading the investigation. She'll be very keen to hear your conclusions."

"You must be joking, Elias. Why would I share information with you--why would I listen to your take on the evidence--when any of you could be Gertrude's killer?" When Jon didn't buy for a moment this conference had anything to do with bringing the truth to light.

Martin winced. Tim looked heavenward in a theatrical show of exasperation. Jon didn't let himself be moved. Elias was the one who'd strewn the issue across the yard like a broken sack of garbage. It wasn't _his_ job to tidy it up.

"Because five minds are better than one. You've got four intelligent people in front of you who are highly motivated to get this resolved. Let us help you resolve it. Unless," Elias continued, arching a brow, "you're having too much fun playing detective to want it solved."

Jon expected him to go on--to threaten to sack him if he didn't cooperate--but Elias waited patiently for his response instead.

He saw the shape of it. Elias didn't want to lose him as an archivist, for whatever reason, so he'd designed this farce to rush Jon's investigation along to a premature conclusion--one, Jon was fairly certain, Elias would carefully drive the group towards. Whether Elias was covering his own guilt or genuinely considered Jon's investigation a pointless annoyance, Jon was less sure.

Jon evaluated the offer. He supposed he had nothing to lose by indulging them, as long as he was careful not to reveal how much he'd actually discovered about each of his coworkers. If he underplayed the extent of his investigations, it could lure them into a false sense of security. Maybe one of them would let a piece of information slip, confuse their own lies, or allow their agenda to show too plainly.

Elias watched indifferently, as Jon played out the contingencies.

Tim wagged a finger like a metronome. "Tick tock, boss. We've all got real work to do today." Martin, who'd been fidgeting at his fingernails, scowled sideways at him. Sasha's intelligent gaze didn't waver.

"...what if I don't trust you," Jon focused on Elias, "to hold up your end of the agreement if we reach a conclusion that's unfavorable to you?"

"I believe you have your _own_ contacts with the Met." Tim had been telling tales out of school, then. Of course. He looked completely unashamed of it, still sprawling casually in his chair, arms folded acoss his chest. "Nothing would prevent you from going to them yourself. That said," Elias went on, "I'm extremely eager for you to speak to Inspector Kaugery. "

"And you won't..." Jon sharpened his gaze, "subvert the investigative process? Push your own conclusions?"

Elias shrugged, "I was honestly just planning to take notes and guide us back on topic if we wander. But if you'd prefer someone else take on that role..."

Jon glanced between Sasha and Martin. Martin had been broadcasting discomfort from the moment Jon had entered the room--down to scooting his chair down to the very end of the table to distance himself from the other three. He felt like an ally. At Jon's choice, Elias grabbed a whiteboard marker from a canvas bag at his feet and handed it to Martin. Martin leapt to his feet, ready for action, and took command of the whiteboard while the others shuffled their chairs aside to give him some room.

"Alright, Jon," Martin said, businesslike, "what do you say we start with a list of your sus--the people you've been investigating."

"Elias Bouchard," Jon said, eyes locked on Elias's.

"Bold start." Elias smiled.

Tim raised his eyebrows. Martin wrote the name on the board in a tidy, rounded hand. Jon listed his other suspects--_Tim, Sasha, you_\--realizing at the end he'd listed them in order of decreasing suspicion. Martin paused below his own name.

"Alright. Who else have you been looking into?"

"Let's focus on the four of you for now," Jon replied.

Martin gave him an odd look. "Really? No one else?"

"Give him a break, Martin," Tim put in, "Stalking four people's a full plate for anyone."

"No," Jon replied, ignoring Tim.

"Fine," Martin said, that same doubtful note in his voice. He erased the names, which he'd been listing in a single column, and rewrote them across the top of the board, with ample space beneath. "How about we move on to listing your main points under each name?" Jon was glad for Martin's slow, careful penmanship. It gave him time to decide what he'd reveal having learned about each of them--what would be better to hold back.

"Shouldn't we discuss," Sasha put in coolly, "the possibility that a monster of some kind killed Gertrude Robinson? It seems reasonable, given Jane Prentiss's interest in our grounds and files, that others may be as well."

Jon agreed to it. He wanted to keep the discussion centered on his four true suspects, in the hopes one would say or do something revealing, but had planned to allow them to talk him around to a supernatural explanation. Elias would, as he was no doubt planning, install a couple showy security measures, and the Archives would appear to resume business as usual. Meanwhile, Jon would be able to continue his research with the culprit believing he'd been fooled.

Martin crammed "Monster?" in at the end of the board vertically.

"Good," said Elias, "ready for the evidence, Jon?"

Jon was going to respond, but Elias reached beneath the table, into the canvas bag, and extracted an old plastic tape recorder--the twin of the one Jon held--and then a stack of cassette tapes. _His_ tapes.

But they _weren't._ They couldn't be! Jon went cold from the pit of his stomach to the roots of his hair. He'd pulled up the floorboard to check they were undisturbed just that morning--but there they were in Elias's hands, being pulled out and carefully set in front of him. Not dummies, produced for dramatic effect, or the tapes Jon had catalogued and filed away in regular archival storage. He recognized the particular way he'd written that label, the chip in the plastic of that case.

When Elias was done, eighteen cassettes were stacked on the tabletop--three stacks of six. Tim was finally sitting up straight, looking curiously between Jon and the collection of tapes.

"When did you--those are _mine._" Jon realized immediately he should have stayed silent. Shouldn't have revealed his dismay. Four sets of eyes fastened on him hungrily.

"They were recorded during regular work hours on Institute equipment using materials purchased with Institute funds. On what basis are they yours, Jon?"

"You know damn well on what basis!" Jon roared. Martin startled at the noise, looking like he was trying to vanish into the wall. "Those are my personal, private--"

"That's really rich," Tim interrupted, smiling sourly. "Since when do you care about privacy? Oh right, when it's _your_ secrets being pulled out in front of everybody."

"This isn't about my secrets," Jon said desperately, "Those tapes contain my findings on each of you. It's highly sensitive information." Sasha seemed intrigued. "Most of it's information I wasn't going to share because it's not directly relevant to the investigation. It's just--well, the type of thing you might find embarrassing," his eyes briefly met Martin's, "or otherwise wouldn't want your coworkers to know."

Tim leaned past Elias to grab the nearest stack of tapes and sift through them, "What do you think, Elias? How sensitive are they? Do I have anything to be ashamed of?"

"I don't think so." Of course Elias had listened to them. Jon's knees felt watery. But when had he had the time--? "They are, however, quite revealing in...other ways."

"Maybe, we...we don't need to listen to them?" Martin looked downright chalky. "N-not all of them, anyway."

Elias and the assistants formed a little huddle around the table to consider the question. Jon felt insubstantial as they discussed it between themselves. Invisible. If he were going to sneak away, he realized, now would be the time. But he couldn't leave without his tapes. Couldn't leave them in hostile hands. They might be altered. _Destroyed._ Between Sasha's missing statement and the incomplete record of the Prentiss attack, he'd lost too much already.

The group decided any of them could opt out of having their particular tapes played in front of the others. Martin, to Jon's relief, did. Jon had lost his temper shamefully at Martin on one of the tapes, vaguely remembered insulting his poetry on another. It was lucky, he supposed, none of the others found Martin any more suspicious than he did. No one questioned his choice.

"If there are no objections," Elias said, "Let's start with Jon's--hm--lead suspect."

"_I_ object," Jon said, forcing himself to stop pacing. No one listened. No one stopped Elias from popping open the carriage and inserting the cassette he'd chosen.

"Supplemental--"Jon heard his own voice begin. Elias had cued the tapes to the relevant time, as well? Of course he had. Jon thought back over his day, trying to figure out when Elias could have snuck in and lifted the floorboard. He remembered leaving his desk only twice--to use the restroom late morning, then to grab his lunch from the refrigerator before returning to eat it at his desk. Eighteen tapes, about twenty minutes each. Elias would need over six hours to listen to each tape in full, then cue it to the correct moment. The timing didn't add up. Unless... had Elias had already known in advance what was on the tapes? He could have been listening all along, after hours. Jon should have kept them closer--taken them home at night. Why had he imagined the nook beneath the floorboard was safe? He fidgeted at his hair. The back of his neck.

Jon snapped back to attention at the sound of Martin clearing his throat, realizing the tape had ended. Martin moved away from the whiteboard so they could see the bullet points he'd written beneath Elias's name.

  * promoted quickly (5 yrs)
  * smoked weed at uni
  * third from Christchurch, PPE
  * Gertrude only pre-promotion employee

"Is that the jist of it, guys? Jon?" Martin looked at him.

Tim looked dubiously at the board, "Martin, you can go ahead and add 'smoked weed at uni' under my name, too. And Sasha's. And yours. May as well add it to the mystery monster, as well."

Martin chuckled nervously at that. "You're right. Maybe that's...not so significant?" he grabbed the eraser.

"Don't erase it,"Jon insisted, hand out. "It speaks to character. A rather dramatic shift in character."

Tim scoffed. Elias smiled outright. "Dramatic, Jon? Really? I grew up--it's as simple as that. I decided it was time to leave some unhealthy habits behind." There was an emphasis on 'unhealthy habits' so slight, Jon wasn't sure if he'd really heard it. But his heart gave a painful thump all the same, and his breath stuck in his throat as he smelled the ghost of cigarette smoke.

Martin's hand wavered, but he let the eraser drop, leaving the point on the board. "The first point, though. Elias's quick promotion. Is five years quick?"

Tim and Elias both had opinions on the question. Jon pushed his memories of Elias's smoke-filled office to the back of his mind and refocused on the conversation. Sasha was vouching for the high turnover rate in Artefact Storage, where Elias had begun his career. "I found myself climbing the ladder rather quickly, just by attritition. Though I was quick to expand my responsibilities." Elias made a self-deprecating face. "Anything to avoid my practical testing duties. When James retired, believe it or not, I was the only internal applicant. By that time, I'd already been heading Artefact Storage for nearly two years."

Nothing Elias had related came as a surprise to Jon, except, "Wait--the _only_ internal applicant?"

"Whatever salary you're imagining the head of a...somewhat disreputable nonprofit draws, halve it. It's a world of responsibility with little material reward. And a lot of _sucking up_ to the type of toff I grew up with, but most people find hard to stomach."

Making fun of his class seemed to endear Elias to the rest of them. Martin, especially seemed more relaxed around him than usual, though Jon imagined that had more to do with Elias choosing not to make an issue of his sham CV in front of the group.

"So, PPE, what is that?" Martin asked, moving on.

"My family's decision," Elias said. "It won't surprise you to learn I was an indifferent student."

"Philosophy, politics and economics," Tim replied, having caught Martin's meaning. He looked at him dubiously. "David Cameron's degree? And like half our MPs, actually..."

"Oh, right...I thought it might be a more...obscure program with the same initials. Parapsychology Something Something."

Jon rubbed his mouth, looking down in sympathy.

"So you took a low level job here to piss off your folks," Tim said with a grin at Elias, "Think I've got the shape of it."

And then wafted all the way to the top on the sail of his pedigree. Nothing so implausible about that, Jon had to admit to himself. He shifted from foot to foot, wishing he had a chair. Elias looked comfortable, in contrast, as he chatted with Jon's assistants. He'd thrown his jacket over the back of his chair, loosened his tie a degree. All four of them actually seemed to be having fun with the "investigation." Jon felt hot with indignation. A woman was dead, and they were treating it with all the gravity of a game of Cluedo. He took a breath and composed himself.

"The last point's the most important," Jon said, interrupting their banter.

"What is the last point?" Sasha asked, peering at the board.

"Yeah Martin, you could've phrased that better," said Tim.

"Oh, um. Basically, Gertrude was the only employee who had been here long enough to remember what the Institute was like before Elias took over in ninety-six."

"What _Elias_ was like before he took over in ninety-six," Jon corrected sharply. Martin rolled his eyes.

"Right. That."

"Well, that's been pretty well covered," Tim said. "I suppose he killed Gertrude because she caught him getting high in a supply closet. Or maybe she dug up his exam scores." He struck the back of his hand across the opposite palm impatiently. "Come on, Jon, what's the motive?"

Jon's suspicions were much less mundane in nature, given the bizarre--almost ritualistic--circumstances of her murder, but he was very conscious of Elias's watchful eyes upon him. "I don't like to theorize ahead of the evidence." Jon replied stiffly.

Tim let out a bellow of laughter that made Jon jump. He reached across Elias for the tape recorder, rewound the tape, and pressed play. The tape cut in right in time for Jon to hear himself say, "--kill her because she knew something about his past? And if so, how can I prove it?"

"--ahead of the evidence?! What in the hell do you call that, then?"

"Actually..." Martin looked nervously between the board and Jon a couple times, then down. "Never mind."

"What's on your mind, Martin?" Elias prompted.

"Well, um." Martin spoke directly to Jon, "Gertrude isn't the only pre-ninety-six employee. Gerald Marston, the old guy who works a couple days a week in book repair, has been out on family leave for a while. I think he's been around since the early nineties."

"Right," Jon said, fighting to hide a spike of irritation. Did the employee rolls he'd obtained not list part-timers? Or was it that those currently on leave had been filtered out? Why did Martin even find it relevant? So Gertrude hadn't been the _only_ employee who'd known Elias early in his career--she was the only one who'd died under mysterious circumstances. (He thought. He made a mental note to dig up this Marston's contact information and check.) "Thank you, Martin," he said with what he considered admirable patience.

Martin had recovered some of his earlier excitement about being useful. He put his hand up as another thought occurred to him. "What about Lucian? In the library. Special Collections manuscripts, I think."

"Who?"

"She's a little bitty woman with a braid and an accent. French, maybe? She's been around since the 70s, but the job she's in now only exists because of a grant, so..." Martin scratched the back of his head. "I don't know. She must have been left off whatever list you have."

"How do you know so damned many librarians?" Jon said tersely.

"The breakroom up there's nicer. But I actually thought of her because she was at Gertrude's funeral. I don't know if they were close, but they must have started here around the same time--"

"Martin, hold on," Tim said, "You were at Gertrude's funeral?"

"Well, yes," Martin scratched the back of his head with the marker again, looking like he'd been accused of something, "I...found her. Seemed the least I could do to pay respects. Elias was there, too, of course."

Tim seemed keen. "You remember seeing anyone else from the Institute there? The killer might have turned up to gloat." Jon's eyes flicked to Elias. Of course, he'd be expected to attend his employee's funeral as Institute head, but...

"A few people," Martin turned to Jon. "I can make you a list, if you like."

"Actually, bet we can get the register from the family. See if there were any unexpected guests on it."

"That's smart, Tim," said Jon, impressed.

"It's just mystery novel stuff," Tim replied, "How come _you_ didn't think of it?"

Jon's face flamed. Before he could pull together a retort, Elias clapped his hands. "Excellent thoughts, Tim and Martin, but it's better left for followup by the police. It's likely an angle they're already working on."

"Sure," Tim replied, "but while we're at it...not to second guess you," he addressed Martin, "but shouldn't we be starting from Gertrude instead of the four of us? You know, tight circle around the victim, see if anyone they were close to looks likely, then work your way out."

"I agree that would be ideal," Elias said, letting a stack of tapes fall through his fingers one at a time, like dominos. "but we're somewhat limited in our approach by the contents of Jon's research."

"Gertrude wasn't close to anyone," Jon burst out defensively.

Martin had an absolutely infuriating _you're-wrong-but-I-know-better-than-to-say-it- because-you're-also-unreasonable_ look on his face. Tim followed the line of Jon's warning glare.

"Martin, you look like you've got something to say."

"Not I! Let's, um...Elias, were you saying something?"

"No."

"Oh, well. Um. Sasha, you've been quiet."

"Yes. I couldn't help but notice we've completely invalidated all of Jon's grounds for suspicion."

Martin leaned toward Sasha, hands out to hush her. His gaze flickered to Jon. "Now, we don't know--let's go ahead and review the rest of Jon's evidence against Elias before we decide he's being...precipitous."

Tim shrugged agreement. Elias raised a finger. "About that..."

Elias explained none of the other tapes contained any further evidence against him. The mood of the little group shifted immediately. Four pairs of eyes scoured Jon in silence.

"Is that right, Jon?" Martin asked.

"That's correct."

"But there... are there _more_ tapes?" he wondered, sounding almost hopeful, "That Elias didn't find, maybe?"

"No" Jon said, purposely pushing defiance into his voice. There weren't--Jon did have what he could see now was equally unconvincing research stored on his laptop--but he almost hoped they'd assume he was lying. That there _were_ more tapes. A whole treasure trove of information he was holding back for his own cunning reasons. If they thought so, he told himself, it'd make whoever killed Gertrude less likely to move against him for the fear he'd made preparations to bring them to light in the event of his death. (If they thought he had more evidence, they'd stop looking at him like _that._)

"Oh. Well. W-we should still give it fair time," Martin went on. "Anything else we should add to the evidence?"

That he's enjoying himself right now, Jon thought resentfully, watching Elias roll the tension from his neck. That he designed this entire scenario to upset me, not to bring any light to the identity of Gertrude's murder. That Elias enjoys (room blue with smoke, fingers resting possessive in his hair) punishing the wayward. And Gertrude, with her impenetrable filing and her secrets and her trip to Alexandria, may have wandered very far from the way.

"Add that he's trying to impede my investigation," Jon said instead.

Martin flattened his lips, then turned to add the point to the board. No one commented.

"Alright!" Tim exclaimed rubbing his hands together, "Can't wait to hear what you've got on me. Hey, did you ever follow up with that guy I had over the night I caught you in my pear tree? He didn't leave his number when he rushed off. "

"That was a _municiple_ pear tree. And no."

"Aww, that's a shame. How many am I on, Elias?"

Elias extracted two tapes from the stack, and they listened quietly. The impulse to fidget was becoming harder for Jon to suppress. The air in the little room was growing hot and thick. Maybe it was the consequence of so many people all breathing and talking together. Jon flapped the front of his jumper, the influx of cool air making him realize how sweaty his underarms had become. No taking off his jumper, then. He wished he could sit down. Or lean against the cool white-painted brick of the wall behind him.

Don't be an idiot, Jon told himself sternly. The temperature's fine. Sasha was, as always, magazine-perfect though her velvet blazer looked much cozier than his own jumper. Martin had been standing just as long as Jon had and seemed totally comfortable.

Just keep breathing regularly. Roll your sleeves up a bit--it's fine, Tim has his rolled. Shift your weight from time to time. Listen to the tape spool from spindle to spindle in your hands. Steady.

"Anyone else notice," Tim said at the end of the second tape, "that the quickest way to shoot to the top of Jon's suspect list is to object to him stalking you?"

Jon wanted to correct Martin's wording of that point--"Mad about Jon's stalking"--but Tim rolled on before he could say anything. "Does anyone see _anything_ here? Honestly? Overqualified. No clear interest in the paranormal--Jon, I've always been interested in architecture, in Smirke's haunted buildings. We talked about it enough in Research. Or did you lose your memory when you lost your marbles?"

"T-there's more to it than Smirke!" Jon said, suddenly certain he was right. The same way he was certain there was a killer in the room. "There's something you're not telling me. I could never figure out why you'd derail your previous career--"

"You know what, Jon? Maybe there _is_ something I'm not telling you--" Tim got to his feet, chair scraping and clattering back against the wall, and leaned across the table. Glaring at Jon from beneath stormy brows, hair tumbling across his forehead, he looked like a movie star. Like a young lawyer in a John Grisham movie. "--because you've lost _my_ trust. Or maybe there's not. Maybe I just left publishing to chase my spooky bliss." Pointed finger jabbing the tabletop in emphasis. "But you don't have the right to know which it is."

_I do,_ was Jon's first impulse, I have the right to know. It's MINE to know. His awareness of Elias's avid gaze, though, stole the words from his mouth. Don't say that, he thought. That'd be an insane thing to say. You don't have to know because...the information _belongs_ to you, or something. You have to know for the very practical reason of solving Gertrude's murder. Preserving your own safety.

Tim didn't wait for Jon's defense, but turned to the board. "Last point. 'Overperforms despite trauma.'" Tim's hand reached out, casually flicked Elias on the shoulder, indicated the board. "Keep that in mind at my next review, would you? Not sure what it has to do with Gertrude's death, considering that's not my trauma. Hell, at this point, it's not even the worms any more."

Jon's lips formed sorry, but without breath. Tim didn't notice.

"Martin, either erase that one or add it across the board, because, compared to _some people_ I think we're all bearing up pretty well."

Martin looked to Jon, as if for permission, and then away. He erased the line.

Elias, though, was the one who finally asked if they were clear to move on. Tim had reseated himself, arms cross more tightly than ever over his chest, gaze turned inward. Martin had gone quiet, carefully avoiding everyone's eyes. Sasha, as always, kept her own inscrutible counsel, features wandering meditatively across her face.

"One thing," said Jon, who, in the silence, had been frantically combing over the totality of his evidence--tapes, observations, folder of files he'd compiled on his laptop--for whatever it was that had made him so certain Tim was hiding something. He mentally reviewed the meeting from the beginning--Tim's agitated gestures, his ever-shifting expressions, his voice cartwheeling with feeling. Jon felt his fingertips brush against a revelation even as he spoke, "and it's that you haven't shared a single fact. You've explained nothing." Jon had it. His fist was tight around it now. "You-you've done nothing but...use manipulative displays of emotion to try to bully me into giving up."

"Oh my god." Martin's appalled voice.

"You're right," Tim said, flatly. "I'm the bully. And I do want you to give up."

Jon waited for Tim to go on. When he didn't, Jon cleared his throat. "Be sure you write that down, Martin."

Elias turned to sort through the tapes, which lay disordered on the table, after his and Tim's perusals. "Alright. We have several tapes that touch on Jon's suspicions about Sasha."

"Five tapes," Sasha said thoughtfully when Elias had finished making his selections, "It looks as though you've been watching me more closely than the others. I wonder what I could have done to draw your suspicion."

"Exist," Tim said.

"He had quite a few about Martin as well," Elias said reassuringly. "I'm sure Jon will share his reasoning."

Jon was becoming certain he'd said far too much already. He was getting too much of that look. The same look from earlier, when he'd--when they'd--when there had _seemed to be_ a paucity of evidence to support his suspicions towards Elias.

And the thing was...it was just that...well.

He'd worked hard his whole life--hours of study, leisure spent in what was essentially further study, careful refinement of his accent, vocabulary, and mannerisms, scrupulous avoidance of the types of social situations where he was likely to be caught flat footed--_not_ to be looked at like he was stupid.

But Jon had decided at the outset, hadn't he, that it'd be safer to let them think he knew less than he knew. Thought less, observed less, had less information than he actually did. It was _good_ to be thought stupid. But not to be stupid. He didn't _think_ he was stupid, but somethin had gone deeply wrong in a way he was unable to understand, and there was a small but growing possibility that it was inside him.

The practical need to obfuscate warred with a yearning to explain. To make them see the seriousness of his suspicions. To understand the logic of his distrust. To tip his brain onto the floor, scattering data like stars and draw the little constellations of meaning he'd made so that they could see them, too. But he was becoming less and less certain by the minute that he _could_ explain. A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline and he let gravity drag it down the curve of his face to soak into his collar. He did, with slow, numb fingers, undo his topmost button.

Elias was playing the first tape. It was the calm sound of Jon's own voice as he questioned Sasha about her missing statement, gently asked whether she'd recalled anything about Michael that hadn't been committed to tape the first time, then assigned her the case. Oh. He realized what tape this was. He heard his office door swing shut as another opened, and then Michael's voice came in, curly with mirth.

Tim reached over and hit the stop button. "Who the fuck is that? Where'd they come from?"

Jon said nothing. He'd decided it'd be safer to stay quiet.

"There's something familiar about that voice," Sasha mused, eyes receding thoughtfully into her head.

"It's someone I rather think Jon should have told you about," Elias said, waving Tim's hand away from the recorder. "Let's listen to the whole thing."

They did, frozen in fascination. And then the recording ended, and Martin staggered into the whiteboard. "Bloody hell!" He picked himself back up and hastily checked the back of his shirt for marker smudges. "So _that's_ how you stab yourself in the chest making a sandwich."

"Why didn't you tell us Michael had returned?" Sasha accused, "He attacked you. He could represent a danger to all of us."

"I'm inclined to agree," Elias said, rewinding the tape, "He sounds like he has some sort of design on the Institute. Did he mention anything like that to you, Sasha?"

"No."

"Was he that--" Tim hooked his fingers, "'delightfully whimsical' with you?"

"Yes. He was quite confused about his identity. Or at least, he spoke about it in a confusing way." Sasha's mouth frowned, but her nose was juggling her eyes mischievously. Jon wondered what _she_ had to be so delighted about. "Though he didn't try to hurt me."

Tim muttered something like _Jon brings that out in people_ and then went on more loudly, "Well, I guess our mystery monster has a name, at least. Martin, you want to do the honors?"

"Michael didn't kill Gertrude."

"Jon--" Martin began gently.

"_Him_ you're sure about?" Tim bellowed, "A monster who ate a woman in front of you before going on to literally stab you? Forget me. Forget Elias." Tim leapt to his feet and, in his haste, wiped the left side of the board clean with his sleeve, ignoring the eraser Martin belatedly held out. Tim grabbed the marker from him instead, and wrote MICHAEL in towering capitals. "We're going to work this angle into the ground."

Tim turned his back and started scribbling.

"It's not Michael," Jon repeated. "His first appearance--it was early April, wasn't it, Sasha? It was nearly a year after Gertrude's disappearance."

Martin sucked his teeth, looking to the side uncomfortably, "Aren't you assuming a lot? How do we know he didn't know Gertrude?"

"I-I suppose we can't be certain..." Jon allowed. Martin was right. His mind wanted to chase down that possibility, but Elias interrupted.

"Jon, not a single one of your assistants had any substantial contact with Gertrude or the Archives before they were appointed to their new roles. Can't they be released from suspicion on the same basis?"

"Not necessarily."

"They didn't even choose to come to the Archives. You were the one who handpicked them to help you."

"Not Martin."

Martin looked stung. God FUCKING dammit, had he not known?

"Sorry, Martin," he muttered.

"'S'fine. But Jon," Martin looked at him pleadingly, "I just don't...can you explain why you're so sure it's one of us? Unless...do you have some...other suspect you don't feel safe telling us about? You don't have to say who, especially if you're in trouble somehow. I just...I want to understand and I don't."

Me too, Martin, Jon thought, chest aching. "D-do you remember that...talk we had when Prentiss attacked? There's something _wrong_ here. And it centers on the Archives. The same way I know that...the way I _feel_ that, I--"

"That all sounds quite irrational," observed Sasha.

"I know perfectly well how it _sounds!_" his voice tore out of him, uncontrolled.

"There's no need to shout," Elias said disapprovingly.

"Right." Jon scrubbed his face on his sleeve. "Right. Sorry, Sasha." Something about the expression on her face was making him queasy. Or maybe his own shame. He wanted to close his eyes, get some respite from being looked at like_ that,_ but when he did, he got dizzy.

"Alright," Tim turned back toward the group. "Here are all the reasons it could be Michael."

"Your handwriting's atrocious," Jon said with what little venom he had left. Tim's writing, cramped as it was, had still run over into a second column.

"I'll read it aloud. One, violent track record. Two, hanging around archives and archivists. Three--and this should probably have been one, actually--_kidnapped and ate somebody._"

"Shouldn't we...tell someone about that? That woman?" Martin said tentatively.

"Helen Richardson."

"He'd have told his girlfriend with the police, at least. Right? She was here for Prentiss. She..." Tim trailed off, looking at Jon. "You didn't?"

Why hadn't he told Basira? Just one more decision he couldn't explain to them or to himself. "What can the police do about something like that?" Jon said despairingly. "He's got that...door. Knives for hands. He can come and go as he pleases."

Elias cleared his throat. "It's something we should pass on to the Chief Inspector. Good heavens, Jon, you could give some thought to the optics, at least." At his confusion, Elias went on. "A woman goes missing, and the last record of her existence is her name in Rosie's register? She's seen walking down to the Archives, but not back up? And the only proof that anyone besides you was involved is _this tape._" Elias tapped the top of the recorder for emphasis. "And, I suppose, Sasha's corroboration that Michael exists. For whatever that's worth. You've really been much too careless."

"Jon," Martin said with that same gentleness Jon was beginning to find abhorrent, "Why did you hide this from everyone?"

"Because he told me you were all lying to me! That Sasha was lying!"

"I'd find your lack of trust hurtful," said Sasha, "but it sounds like you're unwell."

There was something wrong about Sasha. She didn't sound like herself. Her voice or. Her words. The things she was saying.

"L-listen. There are four more tapes about Sasha. Let's...let's get through them, and then we can concentrate on Michael," Jon bargained. "The way you all so clearly want to."

"Of course, Jon," Elias agreed mildly, "It shouldn't take long." Tim, suddenly quiet and cooperative, took his seat again, handing the marker off to Martin.

And they listened in silence and stillness to the second tape. Martin seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be taking notes. Then the third. Jon recognized his introduction to the odd conversation he and Sasha had had over the table in Artefact Storage.

"...I stumbled across Sasha staring at that damn table again. Luckily, I had the wherewithal to bring my tape recorder and managed to turn it on unnoticed--"

Sasha spoke over the tape, "Actually, Jon, you should know I did notice."

Martin's face crumpled and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth. He tried to hold it back--soft cheeks turning red, a cord leaping out on his neck from the strain--but couldn't control himself. He collapsed against the wall, clutching his stomach as helpless giggles spilled out of him. For a moment, Jon hated him abjectly.

Elias let the tape play on as Martin gasped mortified sorries in between fresh peals of giggles, visibly fighting for composure. He finally managed to pull himself together near the end of the recorded conversation.

"--doubt it," Sasha's serene voice continued. "It didn't sound like the sort of thing that would want to be bound to an object."

"I suppose." Jon's replied, "And we haven't seen any long-limbed stalkers--"

Now Tim broke. And that set Martin off again, crying and begging Tim to please stop. Please! Tim was doing a much better job suppressing it, Jon noticed. He'd buried his face completely in his hands, though his shoulders shook and his ears had turned red. The two of them struggled on long past the end of the recording. Even Elias's breath was effortfully controlled--he looked in danger of swallowing his own lips in the struggle to keep a straight face, one hand rhythmically clenching the opposite fist. Sasha, despite being the one to ignite the hilarity, kept her composure throughout.

This has got to end eventually, Jon thought numbly. And he was right. Eventually, it did.

"Respect, Sasha." Tim managed breathlessly, reaching across Elias with his first out. "That was masterful timing."

She brushed his knuckles with her own. "It's a gift."

Martin was the only one with the grace to look ashamed of himself. There was a merry twinkle in Elias's eye as he asked, "Tape four, Jon. Shall we go on?"

"Do what you like," Jon replied listlessly. He thought the next two tapes had a bunch of ranting about the wax museum--it had been a thirty minute journey each way, lurking behind crowds at the other end of the car to keep Sasha in sight--_that_ definitely didn't make him sound sane. And some stuff about Sasha and her boyfriend looking like stock photos, whatever he'd meant by that. She did look like a stock photo, even in motion, in some way he couldn't quite describe, and that was weird, right? But did it even mean anything? That was just Sasha, he supposed.

Discussion returned to Michael. The tape that had been spooling so patiently stopped, the recorder going still in Jon's hands. Martin was asking well, didn't he have strange hands though? Could he shoot a gun with strange hands? Sasha demonstrated with her own hands how many different ways hands could be, and the others agreed that Michael could probably shoot a gun. Martin wondered more about Michael's strange hands. When he'd stabbed Jon, could he have put something in Jon? Something that made Jon act the way he'd been acting? They debated that question for a while. And Tim was saying with Michael's doors, he'd have found it very easy to evade the CCTV into the Archives and then to transport the body into the tunnels.

"But there was no video, anyway," Jon heard himself say. "It was all...scrambled."

They froze at the sound of his voice, seeming almost guilty.

"Actually, Jon," Elias said, "The police recently finished cleaning it up and returned a copy. You're free to review it, for your own peace of mind. It provides a remarkably detailed account of all of our movements in the week leading up to Gertrude's disappearance."

"It...um" Martin scratched behind his ear, "apparently it exonerates us all pretty decisively. I hope that's a relief?"

"What?" his voice sounded like it was coming through layers of pillows, "Then why didn't you tell me? What was the point of all this?"

"To teach you a lesson about invading your employees' privacy. And IT needed your laptop for an hour for forensic reasons. Apparently, it's easy enough to delete the confidential data you've been collecting on us over the network, but they need the machine itself to make sure it nothing's been copied or transferred to other devices." Elias raised his hands, "It's all a little beyond me, honestly."

Jon had held a hoard of information like stars waiting to be connected. But the sky had been wiped clean. Elias controlled all the information now. He stole it and held it hostage. He destroyed it at his pleasure. He used it, in carefully chosen fragments, ripped from their proper context and strategically arranged, to take Jon apart.

A new constellation was being drawn in front of Jon's eyes. Point--the lucky alibi provided the four by the recovered footage. Point--Helen Richardson's disappearance, the only proof Michael had been involved resting an inch from Elias's pinky finger. Point--the tape where Jon blithely nattered about breaking into Gertrude's flat, somewhere else in the same pile. Point--his own erratic behavior and reflexive secrecy. Point--the cassette inside the recorder he held in his hand, holding forty-five minutes of his own paranoid ramblings. Point--his promotion to Gertrude's job. Point--his months' worth of complaints about Gertrude's inability to run an archives--it looked like a longstanding grudge. Point--his promotion to Gertrude's job. Point--his insinuating himself into the police investigation of Gertrude's murder. Point--his lack of any potential postive character witness.

The picture was as clear to Jon as it would be to Elias's friend, Chief Inspector Kaugery.

There was nothing he could do. So he took off his jumper and mopped his face with it. He had to drop the recorder to do it, but it was no help now, anyway.

Suddenly, they were all staring at him again.

oh my god, what is he...

he looks like shit

jon

They were coming toward him, all four of them. Or all three of them and the cell, or whatever it was. The cage they were going to feed him into for killing Gertrude. The being made of black bars, crawling behind them and through them, smiling with a mouth full of teeth made of bars. And he couldn't believe it was happening _already. _The police weren't even here yet.

is he going to

grab him tim stand him up

should i give him space

Something in front of him was blocking his air. Someone. Blocking the light.There was a loud, rhythmic rushing drowning out the other sounds. There was speech happening and he couldn't make sense of it.They were all crowding in shouting around him, and he couldn't understand. The rushing was his breath. He tried to stop breathing so he could understand, and a hand hit him across the face. And that knocked him down from the ceiling. He could feel his feet against the floor now. With something to push against, he fought. Hands tangled with his, forced his arms in all directions.

Elias pushed Tim aside, put his palm against Jon's sternum, and pushed him firmly back into the wall. Jon tried to bring his hands up to grab at the arm pinning him and then something else _pushed_. Pushed through his skull and into his brain. His mind went blank.

He was looking at Elias and he was looking at white like a noon sky in midwinter, and they were the same and he didn't understand either of them. But it was cold and white and empty and a relief. There was nothing to think about. All he could do was breathe. Breathe in cool white emptiness, slower and slower. Then Elias spoke, and he did understand.

"You've been very stupid, Jon."

He had been, it was true.

"But you're going to stop now. And from here on, you're going to conduct yourself like the responsible, even-tempered rationalist I hired. And we're going to talk no more about this."

They finally got him a chair to sit in while they talked about what to do about him, and when he started nodding off in the chair, they carried him to his cot and left him alone. And when Jon woke up the next morning, he was the responsible, even-tempered rationalist Elias had hired. Even if he'd woken up in his shoes again.

This time, however, he was able to make himself a bit more presentable. His jumper had been placed folded on a shelf near the cot--he thought he remembered Martin had left it--but he put on one of the jackets he kept on the office coatrack instead. At least Jon would look to the casual observer like he'd been home and back. He kept a comb and toothbrush in his desk drawer nowadays. In the mirror over the bathroom sink, he looked fine. Perhaps even a little more rested than usual.

No one had set an alarm for him, but he'd barely overslept the start of the workday. Sasha was the first to check in with him. She was relieved to see he was feeling better. "I'm relieved to see you're feeling better," she said.

"Thank you." He smiled as she left the office. The heel of her shoe hit the loose floorboard beneath which he'd secreted his tapes, making it squeak. He wondered whether Elias had returned them to their--_NO. No more of that._ He had his work to do. His _real_ work.

Though Jon had plenty to do, he felt oddly restless. He went to the bathroom for no reason, checking the tops of the sinks for he wasn't sure what before returning to his desk. Plugged in and booted up his laptop--the desktop background was reset to the defaut and the icons were placed differently, but everything he used for work was still there--and digitally recorded a couple statements, adding the files to the catalog. Succumbed to another wave of restlessness and wandered toward Document Storage to see if there was anything important he'd forgotten there the day before.

There wasn't, but Martin caught him on the way out. Jon's first reflex was wariness. Martin's sensitivity, his sympathy, weren't something Jon was sure he'd be able to respond to in any sort of office-appropriate way. He did feel calm. Calmer than he had in quite some time. But the calmness had a delicacy to it, like the surface tension that kept a brimfull glass from gushing over.

He had to face this, he decided, bracing himself. Take charge of the conversation before Martin could grab the wheel and plow it into the subject of yesterday.

"I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin, fortunately, was speechless at this, which gave Jon the time to figure out what he was apologizing for. There were things he was too ashamed of to even think about, so none of those. "I'm sorry," he told Martin, "I didn't ask you to help me with my investigation. Maybe if we'd worked together, I'd have gotten somewhere with it."

"You're not still wanting to investigate, are you?"

Jon wondered whether Martin would leap to help or inform on him to Elias if he said 'yes.' He made the deliberate decision to stop wondering. "It's over," Jon said instead, truthfully.

Worry lingered on Martin's face.

"Really, I'm fine to leave it to the police. I trust they're better equipped to deal with it than I am."

"I guess it helps to have a 'friend' on the force," Martin said a bit stiffly.

"Yes. She's been a great resource." Jon tried a reassuring smile.

"I wasn't expecting to see you looking so good," Martin said, then choked. "S-so much better!"

Jon hadn't allowed himself to imagine the sight he must have made breaking down. He winced hard and squeezed his eyes shut against the mental image.

Martin hurried on, "I mean, it's great to see you're doing better! I just wanted to tell you, Jon, I didn't know about the tapes. Well, I knew about the CCTV--is that tapes? I'm not sure that's tapes. But, I mean, I didn't know about your secret ones. Or rather I knew they _existed,_ but--"

"It's fine, Martin. I don't blame you."

"R-right, um..." Martin trailed off, looking terribly uncomfortable. Probably had some effusive apology cued up, Jon thought tiredly. With tears as well? _Just get through it._

"What is it, Martin?"

"Well, Elias wants to see you."

When Jon saw the broken recorder sitting on Elias's desk, he finally understood the elusive sense of loss that had caused him to wander all day. Elias was fidgeting with it. There was a little bottle of glue on the table nearby, along with a long shard of semi-translucent plastic that had broken off, and a shining pile of tiny screws.

"Ah, Jon," Elias looked up. He looked extra-sharp today. A new haircut, maybe. "No finding replacement parts for this model online, unfortunately. It must be as old as you are. Have a seat."

"I'll stand." Jon hung in the doorway, fingers lightly touching the door behind him.

Elias shrugged, "Have it your way. I'm pleased to hear you've returned to your work."

"I'm not sure what else I'd do."

"The resilience of young people always astonishes me."

"What do you want?"

Jon's tone provoked a fond smile, "I just thought I'd let you know, Jon, if you need to use the recorder from now on, you can check it out from Rosie. Now that we've only got the one in working condition, we must treat it with greater care. Don't you agree?"

Jon let out a breath. "Fine. Thank you for letting me know. I should get back to work." He wouldn't give Elias the satisfaction of asking about his tapes.

Elias aknowledged him with a nod and he left. His hands, surprisingly, were steady as he pushed them though his hair. Elias hadn't made him thank him. Jon had been afraid he would. He tried to keep himself from being grateful Elias hadn't made him thank him. Having to check out the recorder was a minor humiliation in comparison.

When Jon returned to his office after a detour to make tea and toast, Tim was waiting for him in the spare chair. Well, best to get the last of the day's confrontations out of the way, Jon supposed. He set down his plate and planted himself in his own chair.

"Hello, Tim," he said warily.

"Hey, boss." There was no bitterness in the address. "Tea?"

"Just what I could put together in the breakroom. There's not much. I noticed someone straightened things up in there."

"Yeah. We did yesterday." Tim was looking at him bigeyed and intense. "I, um...I've got some biscuits at my desk, if you--"

"Tim, what's on your mind?"

On closer inspection, Tim looked a mess. At least twice the mess he did, even with his own hair oily and shirt crumpled from being slept in.

"I...well. I didn't sleep well last night."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah, I...sorry." Jon didn't understand what Tim looked so ashamed about, but he could tell he was working himself up to talking about the prior day. Tim's hands worried at each other. "When I left here yesterday, I knew I was going to be fired. I rode the whole way home thinking about that. Planning what I'd do without work, what my next move would be. Feeling sort of sick at the idea of you calling me in and delivering the news and having to pack up my desk."

Jon had no idea why such a thought would have tormented Tim. Fortunately, he went on unprompted, "But then I realized I had no idea why I was so afraid. I haven't been happy here for a while now. I've actively wanted to leave. I _do_ want to leave."

"But you can't." Jon supplied.

"No, I don't think so. Whenever I'd manage to work myself up into writing a resignation letter, or even phoning Elias, I'd realize my mind had swerved off its track and instead I'd be worrying myself sick again at the idea of being sacked."

"Because something's keeping you from doing it."

"Yes, but, believe it or not, that's not what was bothering me the most." Tim exhaled slowly, staring at the floor. "It was specifically the idea of you firing me. Well, of sitting right here in front of you. Having to face what I'd done."

Baffled, Jon kept quiet, waiting for Tim to continue.

"I'm sorry I slapped you." Oh yes, Tim had hit him, hadn't he? Probably why his jaw had felt a little stiff and tender when he'd brushed his teeth. "Elias told me to--not that that's any excuse--but you were having some sort of fit, and he sounded so certain--but of course it only made things worse. When has hitting anyone ever made them any calmer?"

"I suppose if you hit hard enough...?" It wasn't even half of a joke, but Tim was looking to him for something.

"The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't the only thing I'd done wrong. The whole...confrontation was wrong from the start. I'd have seen it if I'd looked, but I was too mad at you. It was wrong by design. Sadistic, even."

"Well, it wasn't exactly pleasant," Jon answered smoothly, "but you can't argue with results, can you?"

"Actually, Jon, you can," Tim smiled wryly," I even tried to use _that_. To make myself quit. The fact I was working for a guy who'd whip a--an unwell person into a panic attack for kicks."

"Something had to be done," Jon said uncomfortably. His shoulderblades were drawing toward his spine, neck stiffening, at the characterization of himself as 'an unwell person.' "Things had been getting out of hand. I was creating a...a hostile work environment. I appreciate the thought. The...the apology, but..." I'd rather forget about it, Jon was about to say, but Tim stood and he reflexively flinched backward in his chair. Tim stopped, half-standing, eyes watchful, and Jon made himself relax.

Then Tim finished closing the gap between them, crouched, and wrapped his arms around Jon's back. First he felt awkward, hands still clutching the armrests of his desk chair. Then he realized this would go better if he let them wrap around Tim in return, so he did.

"You're fine, Jon." Pressed together, Tim's voice seemed to come into his head through his own bones instead of his eardrums. And it was really the most ridiculous lie--there were very few standards by which Jon could be described as "fine"--but it was one of those lies there was no point in picking at, because it was much more like a wish. He felt himself relax into Tim's warmth, the soughing of his breath, the feeling of Tim's ribs expanding and contracting beneath his hands. He _liked_ this. It felt warm and solid and safe in a way Jon hadn't felt for a very long time.

And he didn't like it because Tim never would have reached out across the boundary of professionalism to offer this if he hadn't watched Jon disintegrate. Jon went from warm to too warm, skin prickling with embarrassment.

He hadn't done much hugging, but he knew how to end an embrace. Jon thumped Tim on the back a couple times, and they separated.

"Jon, if we're stuck here, I really hope we can have each other's backs," Tim said. There was a genuineness in Tim's voice and eyes that Jon wanted desperately to trust.

Jon swallowed his paranoia and pride and the roughedged jumble of undigested feeling the previous day's events had left him with, and all of that was a lot to swallow, so his voice was a little husky when he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Ideas
> 
> <strike>
>   * Elias blows Jon's college fund at the casino
> </strike> <strike>
>   * Elias shows up wasted to Jon's dance recital
> </strike> <strike>
>   * Elias makes Jon pay room and board
> </strike> <strike>
>   * Elias pervs on Jon's friends
> </strike> <strike>
>   * Elias takes out credit cards under Jon's name
> </strike> <strike>
>   * Elias frames Jon for murder
> </strike>
> 
> There may be a longer gap for the next chapter. It's written, but it needs some extra editing.


	3. Rite of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: toxic masculinity, ED trigger, gross food, animal cruelty mention, genitals, voyeurism, scarring, body focused shame, self-harm fantasies, drunk sex, unwanted sex

Jon wouldn't have chosen to stumble straight from the dusty darkness of the wax musem to Elias's office, still trembling with spent adrenaline and encrusted with three or four generations of lavender-reeking lotion, but that's where Helen's door deposited him before vanishing behind him.

Elias, who'd been placidly pecking away at his keyboard, leapt to his feet so suddenly, his office chair spun out from under him, hit the back wall, and rebounded back beneath him in time for him to collapse into it.

He had to clear his throat twice before he managed speech. "H-hello, Jon. Good to see you back."

"No thanks to you!" Jon spit, leaning over Elias's desk. Jon was close enough for a moment to smell his cologne, see his breath shiver in Elias's lashes. To notice, for the first time, that Elias's eyes didn't do the trembling saccade human eyes did. Elias sank back in his chair, blinking, before recovering.

"That's fair enough," he agreed. "There _was_ actually a bounty for your safe return, but I suppose Michael's motivations are as obscure as usual. If you do see him around, please let h-"

"It's Helen now."

"Oh," Elias's tone was so mild, Jon couldn't tell whether his surprise was genuine. "Helen Richardson? Good for her. Anyway, the offer stands, even if she could have been quicker with it."

A terrible suspicion was blossoming in Jon's mind. The office windows showed leaves in full green summer furl. "How long, Elias?"

Elias paused, then peered into his monitor as though he actually needed to confirm the day's date. "Thirty-three days."

"Don't look at that!" Jon turned the monitor toward him, wobbling on its stand. Excel showed on the screen, color-coded columns of figures. Business as _fucking_ usual. The date in the lower right corner confirmed what Elias had told him. "Look at me!" Jon hit the power button.

Elias's eyes were closed, fists resting on the desktop. He took a slow breath as Jon watched, his tie rising and falling on his chest.

"I said _look._"

"Look, Jon," eyes still stubbornly closed, breathing evenly, "I understand you're upset..."

"No. I don't want to hear another word out of you, unless it's an accounting of your time." That finally shocked Elias's eyes open, pale and still. "Thirty three days. I spent _mine_ tied to a chair being prepared for the skinning."

"I was doing everything in my power to locate you."

Jon had had a long time to do nothing but think. It had occurred to him when Elias had failed to answer Nikola's taunts, that there was no reason he couldn't be replaced. Martin had been reading statements too readily, eager to help. To make himself Elias's next patsy. Or maybe it would be Basira instead that Elias would send to face Nikola-dressed-in-Jon. Jon couldn't hold back a bitter noise of disbelief.

"I've had the others working on locating the ritual site."

"Did they even know what they were looking for? You didn't tell them I was kidnapped, did you?" Jon saw the answer on Elias's face. Easier to slot a new Archivist into place when they were ignorant of the old one's fate, he thought grimly. "Another 'oversight,' I suppose?"

"I'm sorry," said Elias, sounding much less sorry than Jon would have liked, "that my powers do not yet rise to the level of omniscience. And I'm sorry for your ordeal, but if you could rein in the dramatics--"

Jon was too furious to do anything but stare.

"--you'd realize how much better positioned we are to move against the Circus now that you've returned with a month's worth of observations."

"Well, it's a relief to hear everything's going to plan!"

Elias shrugged. "I only meant it's not the setback it could have been."

_Not the setback..._ "Elias," Jon's voice was cold enough to blister, "what, exactly, is the point of you? You've got no protection to offer. No information. And I'm quite capable of endangering and mutilating myself."

Elias's lips twitched slightly, but when he spoke his voice was serious. "My job is to provide the guidance you need."

"When you're not bashing its head in with a pipe."

Elias waved his hand dismissively. "Leitner, you mean? He offered you nothing but the crutch of simple answers. If I hadn't stepped in he could have significantly stunted your development."

Jon tore open the top buttons of his shirt. Elias's mouth fell open at the sight of the grease-pencil markings drawn where the doll had planned to cut into him. "Develop me faster, because _they're_ through wasting their time." Jon leaned over Elias's desk, distantly surprised Elias was allowing him to loom. He had to keep pushing while he still had whatever advantage Elias's surprise and his own fury afforded. "What do we actually know?"

Elias shut his eyes again, whole face drawing inward in a wince, as though the idea of releasing useful information was disgraceful as succumbing to a fit of diarrhea where he sat. "Jon..."

"Don't you dare 'Jon' me!" Jon struck the table before he thought about what he was doing, the fragile skin of his scarred palm stinging. "Start guiding me, or we're through."

"Gertrude believed," Elias began with pained slowness, "that the Unknowing was going to take the form of a dance. It required a great deal of intact human skin to clothe what she referred to as the, er, the _corpse_ de ballet." Oh. Jon had to lean more heavily on the desk for a moment as it hit him that the still, warped figures that had crowded around him may not all have been wax.

"-though I suspect that's just her sense of humor," Elias continued. "There is also one, the Danseuse Etoile, that requires a costume of special power or distinction. Gertrude believed that Orsinov and his circus created a dancer specifically for this role."

"I've met it. Calls itself Nikola," Jon said thinly, hand rising unconsciously to the marks around his neck.

"There's also something else in the notes she calls the choir, but no real detail on that. As far as where it will happen, it's a--"

"A wax museum," Jon interrupted hastily. If he dwelt on how valuable this information would have been if Elias had chosen to share it a few weeks ago, he'd lose his composure completely. "Old, mostly abandoned, I think. I don't know exactly where, but-"

"That still narrows it down significantly." Elias looked pleased. "I'll have the others start digging."

"How do we-how do _I_ stop it?" he pressed.

"Gertrude seemed to think that once the dance begins it's tied to its location. Sufficiently disrupting that might be enough to derail the ritual. She mentioned she had acquired...something, for this purpose, but she gave no detail as to exactly what that might be."

"And you can't just..." Jon didn't bother hiding his skepticism, "s_ee_ where she put it."

"She was...she got very good at hiding--ahh!" Elias's gaze flicked away, eyes becoming distant before refocusing on Jon.

"What?"

Elias twitched at a cuff irritably. "Melanie is on her way up here with a knife. Could you talk to her for me?"

Melanie. Knife. The ideas failed to connect. Jon sputtered. "_W-what?!_"

"She's hoping that even if I see it coming she'll still be able to overpower me. She's wrong, of course--" Elias went on smoothly, making no move for a weapon of his own, "-but I'd be keen to avoid that sort of struggle."

A knock sounded. Jon's eyes darted to Elias, who, disregarding his alarm, serenely invited Melanie in. Jon's hands clenched futilely around air in lieu of Elias's neck, before he composed himself, spinning to greet her.

Jon's first thought at the sight of Melanie was that Elias had been toying with him again. That this would be another of his playful humiliations--she _had_ missed out on the last one, after all. Melanie looked completely casual and composed, dressed in a nice pantsuit--_white trousers, _Jon thought ridiculously, _can't stab someone in white trousers_\--and holding a stack of what looked like research material. With Elias's forewarning, though, it was clear something in her posture was off. The folder and bundled newspaper clippings were held a bit awkwardly in her left hand, right hidden behind them.

"Elias, hi, just brought-" She froze halfway through the door as she spotted Jon standing between them.

A noise escaped his throat at the sudden violence in her eyes.

"What-" she let the papers fall away, and good lord, that was a large knife. Unnecessarily large, he'd have thought. Jon fumbled his chair between them, raising it to form a barrier. "-are _you_ doing here?"

"Put the knife down, Melanie." He didn't sound half as commanding as he would have wanted. Jon hoped his legs weren't visibly shaking.

Her free hand grabbed the chairback, and they wrestled over it. _Where the hell is HR when you need them?_ Jon thought hysterically. _Let alone security. Or is that Daisy now? _The knife--one of those tactical kinds that got advertised on right-wing websites--gleamed keenly, sharp and bright as a broken mirror. Jon had never seen anything like it in real life. It swung toward him as they struggled, skimming the ends off the fine hairs on the back of his knuckles.

"Melanie!" Jon's voice was an octave higher than it should be. Oh god, would it actually come down to muscle against muscle, him trying to chair her into submission? Jon _really_ didn't want to bludgeon an employee, but he wanted to be cut up by one even less. He dropped one side of the chair, hand outheld in a subduing gesture.

"Get out of my way!" Melanie feinted toward him. Jon flinched, but stood his ground, and the knife veered no closer. Alright. She was furious, of course, Jon thought, relieved, but this was _Melanie._ She was practically a friend. She wasn't beyond reason.

"Look, I don't believe-" _you're a killer?_ One look at her, and the rest of the sentence crumbled in his throat. "This isn't the way!" he tried.

"You haven't been here!" Passion broke her voice. Jon darted a look backwards at Elias, whose face was unreadable. What _had_ been going on while he'd been captive? "You don't _know_-" Accusatory.

"I was kidnapped!"

"Oh," she said, blinking awkwardly, knife dropping several inches, "...sorry?"

Jon seized on her moment of hesitation. _Build rapport: Rephrase the complaint so your employee knows they've been heard. Then let them know how their feedback will be addressed._ He couldn't remember offhand which management book he'd got it from--one of the ones he'd read when Elias had broached the subject of his promotion--but Melanie seemed receptive, still startled into silence. "I mean, yeah, El-Elias...is a major problem-" he began, but the name 'Elias' itself was a rage trigger, and Melanie's brows went down again.

"Jon, look at me." He obeyed. Her eyes were intense, pleading. "There is only one way out of this, and it is through _him._"

Jon followed the point of her knife to where Elias sat, watching the two of them like a film. Jon turned back to Melanie, feeling Elias's gaze like the burr of itchy wool between his shoulder blades. He exhaled his own renewed flare of anger. _You could look concerned at least, you superior prick. I should let her at you._

But Elias sat in the serenity of his own value, Jon's only candle in a dark world. Jon almost wished he'd have assessed Jon wrongly. _Let me fail._ Let Melanie push past him and core the smug right out of the man with her eight inch blade, Unknowing be damned--

"I get..." _needing him pulled down and broken_ "I get that you hate being here, Melanie, but do you really want to trade it for prison?"

"No, but the way I see it, the police seem really keen not to investigate crimes committed here."

"That's actually fair!" Elias chirped.

"Shut up!" Jon snarled. Turning back, he held out his hand, palm up. "Melanie, _please._"

Her eyes were locked to his hand. The knife had dropped to her side, blade pointed at the ground "...it's not just being stuck here, Jon. It's not just me." Hopelessness. "He's manipulating you, he's manipulating all of us. Can you seriously not see that? He's pulling all the strings, and I don't think there's any other way to stop it. So get out of my way."

There was no conviction in it this time, though--it was a plea, not an order. Jon kept his hand extended. "Look, I-I'm sorry, Melanie, but we need him. We-we will..." Jon trailed off, very conscious of Elias listening to his every word. "We _will_ find a way to deal with i-with him." He tried to beam his sincerity through his eyes to her. "But not today. A-and not like this."

There was a long moment where Melanie stared at him, and Jon stood still, staring back. He had no next move in mind if she raised the knife again, except try and dive out of the way.

"...alright." Melanie reached past Jon's hand and opened stiff fingers, letting the knife clatter onto the desktop. She turned back to Jon, defeated, but still fiery-eyed.

"We'll try it your way," she struggled on, "but whatever your way actually is, you'd better figure it out fast. Because it's _your_ fault that I'm here. Fix it, or get out of the way!" She spun and flew out the door.

It would be great, Jon thought, wincing at the crack of door hitting frame, if problems could come at him in ones or twos instead of all at once. He still had rope grooves sunk into his arms, and he'd already made another enemy. For _Elias's_ sake, he'd made another enemy.

Jon retrieved Melanie's knife, fumbled the blade back into the handle, and pocketed it. The thing was so big, he doubted he's be able to bend at the hip.

"Thank you, Jon." Elias said, eyes sparkling merrily, color high in his cheeks. Jon couldn't imagine circumstances in which he'd want his gratitude less. "Do you still have the suit you wore when we discussed the Head Archivist position?" he continued nonsensically. "I don't suppose it was a rental."

Jon was struck dumb. Elias's eyes flicked away from him momentarily--combing the contents of Jon's closet?--and back. "Yes, I think I could put this together quickly in that case," he said under his breath. His colorless eyes fastened to Jon's. "I've got a little olive branch to extend to you, Jon."

"An...olive branch?"

"Call it thanks for dealing with Melanie." Elias continued.

An olive branch was still a branch, and all to easy for Elias to strip for a switch. Jon kneaded his temples, considering the knife in his pocket.

"Don't be like that, Jon," Elias said with a frown. "It's nothing more or less than a nice dinner out and a chat with my friend, Elizabeth."

"You have friends now?"

"She's a very special person." The corners of Elias's mouth rose slightly. "With quite a broad knowledge base. I think meeting with her could greatly expand your faculties."

"How so?" Jon's suspicion added another layer of force to his voice.

"There are techniques she can teach you that will make you more capable of dealing with...well, exactly the sort of problem you've been dealing with lately." Elias frowned at Jon's attempt at compulsion. "Though I should say, I doubt she'll find this kind of behavior as charming as I do. It's making me think twice about whether I should introduce you at all."

"I don't _care,_ Elias. I have five week's work to catch up on."

Well past his limit, Jon sought refuge in the basement.

If there hadn't been so much to catch up on, Jon would have looked into the handful of Elizabeths from statements and past research that had come to mind in Elias's office. He hadn't expected to have so little time to consider the matter, though. He hadn't expected Elias to come to his office three days later--the Thursday of the same week he'd been freed from the wax museum--and say that Elizabeth would be available to meet with them the following evening.

"Will that give you enough time? Does your suit need pressed? Do you need to check the fit? No--" Elias gave Jon, who hadn't bothered standing, a quick once-over. Jon resisted the clear expectation he get up and twirl. A strange frivolity had overtaken Elias, and Jon had no idea what it meant, except something bad. "You haven't gained a pound since your first day, have you? That's quite a feat in your thirties."

"I've been lashed to a chair for the past month by things without insides," Jon reminded Elias flatly. "They weren't overly concerned with when or what to feed me."

"Ah. It seems to agree with you."

Jon had already returned Melanie's knife to her in an attempt to make amends. He glared instead.

"We'll be waiting for you at eight in the lobby of the Four Seasons. You'll have ample time to change after work, so I suggest you do; you'll want to look sharp."

"And what happens if I decide I've got something better to do?"

"My dear friend and I have a pleasant meal together--" Elias eyed Jon's sour expression, "probably pleasanter than we'd have otherwise had--and the bill's sixty percent what it would have been. You've been pestering me for answers, Jon. You've been pestering me for help. This is your crutch."

Of course he'd go. There was no question in Jon's mind that he'd go.

"I've got work to do." Jon turned to his filing cabinet.

"Very well." Elias gave a couple friendly taps on the door frame and left. He _did_ care, though, Jon was certain. He sifted through his files trying to remember what he'd been working on before Elias had surprised him. Jon hadn't seen Elias had been buzzing like that since the first time he'd had tried to compel him.

"What the fuck was all that about?" Melanie asked, leaning in the open doorway with her arms crossed.

"Just Elias amusing himself." Jon turned, peering at her. "Were you eavesdropping?"

She didn't look the slightest bit ashamed of it. "Why's he taking you to the Four Seasons?"

For preventing you from killing him, Jon didn't say. "His own inscrutable reasons. He wants me to have a talk with someone. An Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth what?"

"If you were listening, you know as much as I do."

Melanie twitched her chin up stiffly. Jon realized she was looking at his scarred hand where it rested on the cabinet. "Is this going to go how your 'talks' usually go?"

"They're not going to set me on fire in the middle of the Four Seasons, Melanie."

"It's going to be _some_ fuckery. You have to know that. I mean, you warned me not to be alone with him."

"I can handle myself."

"Sure you can," Melanie replied. "D'you want to borrow my knife?"

"Thanks, but it'd ruin the lines."

Melanie had a smaller knife, it turned out. On the way home Friday, he found it in his coat pocket, and was so surprised by the rubber of the handle beneath his fingers, he nearly pulled it out to examine it on the tube.

Better to leave it where it was, Jon thought, hanging his overcoat on its hook. Elias could be watching.

He showered, brushed his teeth, put on cologne from the dusty bottle his grandmother had bought him on a long-ago birthday, washed half of it back off, and dressed. The suit, when he pulled it reverently from its zippered sarcophagus, was as crisp and gorgeous as the day he'd brought it home. Pale grey with a subtle windowpane check and narrow lapels, it was the only piece of clothing he owned tailored to his measurements. Jon had bought it when he was fresh off a raise in his mid-twenties because a book had told him he should. When he wore it, it enforced height and structure on his slight, slope-shouldered body.

He spent too long draping ties over his shoulder, before deciding on his plainest, then realized the pocket square he'd bought along with the suit had gone missing, and he had no idea where it was. He didn't think they were required, but it _was_ the Four Seasons. Maybe he'd look strange without one? He considered folding a pair of silk shorts so a corner peeked out of his breast pocket, but discarded the idea just as quickly.

When Jon took a moment to examine the overall effect in the mirror, his heart sank. The face that looked back at him was not the same one that had the last time he'd worn the suit. Most of the time, the scars that pocked his cheeks and neck were invisible to his eyes, but something about the suit set them off. The neutrality of the color drew the brightness out of the reds and purples of the deepest pits, maybe. The evenness of the check, the slight smooth sheen of the fabric, made the cratered surface of his face look more irregular.

He averted his eyes. When he didn't focus on his face, the rest of the picture was pleasing. Except...his eyes came to rest on his hands, braced on the bathroom counter. His right hand didn't look normal.

The back of his hand had been mostly unburnt, but the skin had been dragged into odd patterns of wrinkles and shiny tightness by the irregular healing of his palm. He tilted his hand back and forth a few degrees at a time. No matter which angle he turned it, he could tell the fingers looked wrong. The fatty pads on the proximal phalanges had been melted--Jon carefully avoided thinking about his own liquefied flesh being incorporated into Jude's body--and his fingers were unnaturally thin. Slightly thicker at the tips like that alien from _ET_ that had sent him into wailing hysterics as a little boy.

Jon scrambled for the rumpled brown jacket he'd worn to work that day and threw it on over the beautiful gray suit, peering hopefully into the mirror. He still looked like shit, but at least he looked like shit _all over._

He might have changed, but his phone chirped a notification from the other room, and he knew without looking it was Elias. He forced his feet into the shoes he'd bought with the suit, leather stiff from going years unworn, and headed down to street level.

The sky had darkened to the tops of the highest buildings and Jon was grateful for the softening onset of dusk. All the way to the hotel, he tried to get back his usual feeling of translucence--that he glided through the world like an invisible video camera, seeing without being seen. But he _was_ seen. No one had been nasty about his looks to his face, but when he was mindful, he saw double-takes. He saw carefully averted eyes.

As he walked, his right hand worried at the handle of the knife in his coat pocket. This person--this "dear friend" of Elias's-- was almost definitely an avatar, he reminded himself. He didn't have to look attractive and normal for an av-for a _monster's_ benefit. Jon gripped the knife, fingers flexing against the handle. Better to look rough. Better to look dangerous to monsters. His feet found a marching beat, his teeth grit together.

Jon pushed through the satisfying resistance of the doors to the hotel lobby with both arms flung out ahead of him. The rubber seals that kept out the chill evening air clapped shut behind him more loudly than he'd expected. He froze.

The ponytailed concierge looked up at the sound, smiled in acknowledgement, and went back to checking in a well-heeled middle aged couple. A bellboy wearing a Spirou cap like bellboys wore in movies gave Jon a nod as he directed his luggage cart past him and out onto the street. The light was movielike, too. Pearly and soft, and seeming to come from everywhere.

Jon had come to a stop a few steps inside the doors, searching for his bearings. He'd walked past the building dozens of times, and never before thought to peek inside. He should have at least googled a few pictures of the place. Groups of guests chatted in small groups around the lobby, but sound was decorously muffled to the occasional murmur or clack of a heel. He couldn't see Elias.

Jon backed himself into the corner next to the door and pulled out his phone to silence the ringer and check the time. He was a few minutes early--not too late to back out.

"Jon!" Elias strode toward him across the lobby wearing a pinstriped suit that made him look tall and solid. "Look at that _dark_ tie," he said disapprovingly, tugging Jon out of the corner. "You look like you're going before a judge." Elias's hands were suddenly at his throat, fingers working his tie loose and pulling it over his head. "You're young. You're going to have a good time tonight! You should look it."

Jon caught the eye of a tall, dark-haired woman over Elias's shoulder. She gave him a sympathetic smile and an eye roll and Jon looked hurriedly away. Elias was fussing his collar back into place, and undoing his top button.

Jon rallied in time to slap Elias's hand away from his hair, but not to prevent him from rolling Jon's tie up and stuffing it into his left coat pocket. If he'd reached for the right, Jon wasn't sure what he'd have done.

Elias gave him another once-over, smiling approvingly at his handiwork, then realized it was time for introductions. "Elizabeth, this is my Archivist, Jonathan Sims."

She didn't flinch at the feel of his hand as they shook. Jon tried to return her smile.

"Jon, Elizabeth."

Jon attempted to stuff his hand back into his pocket, but Elias was already behind him, tugging his coat from his body. What was he _doing?_ Hot-cheeked, Jon tried to observe the expected formalities. "P-pleased to meet you, Elizabeth."

"Same," she said. Her voice was low and pleasant. "Elias has told me so much about you."

"Yes, well. I wish I could say the same." He felt like he was smiling against wire.

"You'll have plenty of time to get to know each other over dinner." Elias assured cheerfully. He steered them toward the entrance to the hotel restaurant, a hand on each of their lower backs. Passing the threshold was like passing into another world, the amber light and vertical dividers faceted with shards of mirror and glass making the room feel like the inside of a crystal decanter. Small white-clothed tables floated in the golden darkness like chips of noon light.

Elias gave his name to the maitre d', but refrained from following, touching Elizabeth's arm lightly.

"Let me take your coat. Jon and I will follow you in shortly."

At the coat check, Elias smiled confidentially at Jon. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Through a bank of plants, Jon could see Elizabeth sitting alone at their table. She noticed him noticing her and smiled. Jon turned swiftly back to Elias. She was objectively lovely--skin a pale glow in the lamplight, short sharp-edged shock of dark hair, features defined as a statue's--and not detectably inhuman.

"Elias, what is she?" Jon laced his voice with compulsion.

"A dear friend," The same non-answer. Elias had dropped his smile. "And I'll reiterate, you're not to compel her. Your rudeness reflects poorly on me."

"Any other pointers?" Jon heard himself miss arch and hit anxious.

Elias blinked. "Just be your charming self, Jon. Put the cliches about the specific fork for the oyster, or what have you, out of your mind. You could fling icecubes at the waiters with your spoon, and they'd apologize and bring you more."

"Do-am I meant to...to talk to her about work, though? About the supernatural?" Jon pleaded. "How's this meant to 'expand my faculties?'"

"I wouldn't have invited you if I thought I'd have to spoonfeed you," Elias replied, exasperation sharpening his voice. "Talk about whatever the two of you are interested in. Surely you've had a friendly conversation before."

Not like this. Jon's preferred icebreaker was to scuttle up to his target while they were paying attention to something else--a street performer, a television show, a piece of art--say something disdainful about it under his breath, and hope they laughed.

It didn't help Jon's sense of security that Elias hurried him along to the table before he could transfer the knife to a trouser pocket.

He reached for the back of the chair to Elizabeth's side, only to have Elias chivvy him into the one across from her instead. Elizabeth arched an eyebrow at their interplay.

"Is he this overbearing with you?" Jon groused.

"I don't know why you don't slap him."

Jon let out a bark of laughter, then hurriedly covered his mouth, but her smile had turned a shade warmer, crinkling her eyes, so it was fine.

He noticed three glasses of water had already been placed. "Do we need to ask for a menu?"

"I've ordered the tasting menu all around," Elias said, then offered an explanation that wasn't _explicitly_ for Jon's benefit.

"Seems presumptuous," Jon muttered. "Maybe she wants a cheese toastie."

Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't think I should leave it to chance."

"Come here, Jon," she waved him in to lean over the wine list, "We can choose the wine, at least."

"I saw there was a--"

Elizabeth bapped Elias on the nose with the menu to shut him up, and kept it raised to block his face as she and Jon discussed what descriptions were intriguing, what was likely to pair well with what she remembered of the menu, what was a good year...well, Elizabeth discussed and Jon tried to put in enough words to sound like he _did_ have an opinion but was politely accommodating hers. While she read off years and vineyards, he tried to formulate a conversational opener that would make sense whether or not she was an avatar.

She must be, though, right? Or some other monster? If not, what was the point? He tried not to observe Elizabeth's face more closely than was normal. Her skin was flawless--_poreless_\--but money could look like that. He noticed her fingers gripping the menu didn't show the normal flush of pressure, but if she was a thing like Sarah Baldwin, she was generations more advanced. Her movements and expressions were perfectly smooth and natural, and she smelled...well, she didn't smell of anything, but especially not of cloves and soggy leather.

She could be a human neck-deep in their world, like Adelard Dekker. Unless...Elias had been extremely focused on his not using compulsion on her--perhaps that was what he was meant to learn from her? How to extract information unobtrusively from an ordinary person without leaning on his powers? Maybe she was an innocent who happened to have a story, like those who came to the Institute.

He'd decided on _so who are you with?_ when the waiter came for their drink order.

"Should we talk to the sommelier before we decide?" she asked him. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to have to figure out what he was supposed to say to a sommelier, so he declined. She ordered what they'd agreed on, and the three of them were left to their intimacy.

"So, Jon," Elizabeth began, "Elias tells me you started as a Researcher?"

"Yes. It's been nearly six years now."

"How does managing a department compare?"

"It's a nightmare," Jon shot a combative look at Elias, who smiled indulgently. "The previous Archivist capably held the post for forty years with no sign of slowing down. Elias was an idiot to...to get rid of her."

"Ah, intractable discipline problems, unfortunately." Did Elias sound a bit uncomfortable? Good. The waiter returned, distributed glasses and poured. Jon shifted his glass to the left of his plate, so he could avoid using his right hand as much as possible.

"Intractable problems? After forty years' service?" Elizabeth wondered.

"Even with four full-time employees, we're struggling to get up to speed on her projects."

"If you need additional help," Elias said, wine in hand, "I'm very willing to bring on another assistant. Do you have any other friends from Research that would take well to the challenges of the department?"

"It's more the lack of support in dealing with emerging crises than a lack of manpower." Jon went on, ignoring Elias. "He let an infestation of some mystery bug muster unchecked in the Archives for months--ignoring my continued warnings--until they started destroying our files. The entire building had to be fumigated and evacuated. Several of us were off work for weeks dealing with the fallout."

Elizabeth gave Elias what Jon read as a look of stunned judgement, eyebrows raised. "Really?"

Jon laughed darkly, "I was insulated from the worst of it in Research, but Elias tends to take a wait and see approach to burgeoning disasters."

"Speaking of burgeoning disasters," Elias said tightly, "I'm afraid you're boring Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's eyes were dancing at Elias's discomfort. Definitely not one of the Circus, Jon decided. "Not at all! It's great to get a window into what Elias does with himself all day."

A different waiter arrived, bearing the cleanest piece of driftwood Jon had ever seen, atop which were arranged what looked like three Bird of Paradise blossoms. Elias had awkwardly forced a change of subject, Elizabeth smiling teasingly at him, so neither of them caught Jon's surprise at the sight of their first course.

"So did you get that guitar you were wanting?"

Elizabeth laughed. "That 'guitar I was wanting?' I don't play."

Jon teased the petals of the flower apart with his fork and wondered whether he could get away with sniffing it. No point, was there, when regardless of what it smelled like, he was going to have to eat it.

"Alright," Elias said, irritably transferring one of the blossoms to his own plate, "whatever errand it was that took you to Greece. How did it shake out?"

Oh. The flower was mango, prociutto, and another fruit--papaya? Jon didn't usually like salty and sweet together, but he could probably manage.

"Seriously, Elias? Do you just play the Tra La La song in your head when I talk to you? I told you at Fenella's thing I was going to Kolymbari to beg for an apprenticeship to Sakis Spiros, the luthier. You pestered me about it for forty minutes before telling me to make sure I see 'that beach in Mykonos.'"

Jon had no idea why a beach in Mykonos filled Elizabeth with such contempt, but he liked hearing that tone directed at Elias.

"A luthier's a guitar maker," Elias said to Jon.

"He knows what a luthier is, Elias."

"Yes, Elias," Jon agreed happily, "the condescension's uncalled for."

The driftwood was traded out for new plates as Elizabeth told them about sleeping on the naked rock outside Sakis Spiros' house for a week, until she was finally able to negotiate her apprenticeship around the language barrier.

"My spine was like gravel by then. I rattled every time I tried to stand up from the work bench."

This course was skewers of what looked to Jon like grilled baby mice. Elizabeth rattled her skewer in demonstration.

"If I had your body," Elias said, gripping the end of his skewer with one hand while he slid the mice to his plate with his fork, "I'd take better care of it."

Elizabeth's twinkling smile inverted instantly. "Ugh, Elias, just..." She stuck her tongue out in disgust. "Could you try to be a little less tacky than your surroundings."

Oh, so this was a tacky restaurant, Jon realized. Thinking back, he thought he'd successfully avoided seeming impressed. That was good. Mykonos must be tacky, too? And maybe...maybe Elias himself?

"You won't be young forever, you know," Elias said.

"He saves all profoundest insights for you. I'm jealous." Jon took a long drink of his wine, bracing himself for the mice.

"You're right," Elizabeth said, jabbing her skewer toward Elias, "so if I'm going to sleep on the rocks, I've got to do it now, while I can get up again."

Though Elias and Elizabeth's conversation was intimate with a long shared history of people Jon didn't know, and places he'd never been and would never go, he found Elizabeth including him easily.

"Tell me you made it to the Kotsanas museum, at least." Elias said over slabs of stone dotted with colorful puffs of foam and dollops of sauce.

"I have a no museum policy." Elizabeth turned to Jon, daintily picking the bones out of her foam. "He knows my no museum policy, and yet..."

"It's different--dedicated to ancient technology, and you being so technically-minded..."

"If I wanted to look at a bunch of dull antiquities, there are plenty in London."

(_L-like Elias!_ Jon may have said at that point.)

Bowls of milk with carnations and slivers of pastel jelly floating in them followed.

"--it's only two years residency for Singaporean citizenship, versus five in Japan."

"And they both allow dual citizenship?"

"No, neither does."

"What will mother say if you renounce your citizenship?"

"Nothing. Why would she care?"

"Her passport's going to be useless, anyway, if Brexit goes through." _Shit,_ thought Jon as he dipped his spoon in the milk to find it had been precut into tiny cubes.

Elizabeth nodded her agreement. "It's why I'll be moving on this within the next couple months."

"You really think Brexit's to have any real effect on you?" Elias wondered.

"Yes!" Elizabeth and Jon said together. "You silly old man," Elizabeth added.

"Worth leaving over?"

"What should keep me?"

_Shit!_ thought Jon as the tiny cube he'd slipped between his lips startled crackling alarmingly against his tongue. A calmly as possible, he reached to refill his glass. Weren't the waiters supposed to do that at a place like this?

"You don't want to be here for the fireworks?" Elias smiled, unperturbed by his own dish of little cubes.

She didn't appreciate the joke--if it was one--giving Elias a long steely look before saying, "Oh, fuck off. Jon, he's no friend of the common man."

"I didn't think he was a friend of anyone."

Elizabeth splayed her hand on her chest in a 'who me' way. "Oh. Er...less a friend, more a weird uncle."

Elias got purse-lipped, like he was preparing to change the subject again, as yet another waiter arrived to remove the bottle Jon had emptied. "We'll have another of the same," Elias said.

"No, we won't." Elizabeth put her hand out to stop the young man from turning away.

"Would you like to try something different?" Elias said patiently.

"No, actually. Isn't tasting supposed to be the point of the tasting menu? Deadening your tongue with a lot of alcohol defeats the purpose."

Jon gave a lopsided shrug. "Would that be so bad?"

Elizabeth laughed outright, the waiter's eyes widened, and Jon immediately felt guilty. Everything they'd sampled had been delicious--why had he said that?

"I thought it rather enhanced the--" Jon detected the very faintest note of hurt in Elias's voice.

"Yes," Jon interrupted in a rush, "all I meant is yes, let's have another. I'll be right back."

The interior of the men's was a relief--Jon had been half-expecting some old man with a towel over his arm who he'd have to talk to and tip, but the room was empty. The walls were lined with slate tiles, one long mirror above the sinks. There was a single large picture of a total eclipse in the center of the back wall. Jon looked at it for a moment, wondering what he was supposed to make of it, before ducking into a stall.

_You're losing track of yourself._

He thought about Elizabeth's laughter, tried to analyze its tone, played back the evening, retracing the progression of the conversation. Maybe Elias had been right--opening with a bunch of complaints about work had been a terrible idea, and couldn't have gone over as well as it felt like it had in the moment. Her delight in Jon's presence seemed genuine, but _why?_ What did he offer? It's not like they were peers--she and Elias were peers. He was a pigeon that had found its way into the rafters.

Washing his hands, Jon saw himself in the mirror. The pits in his cheeks were flushed red, and he looked dull and a little unclean. He bared his teeth at his reflection and saw they had a purplish tinge. Had it been visible when he spoke? Laughed? He rinsed his mouth and spit into the sink and stood back up and realized he was a goddamn idiot.

_What are you here for, anyway?_

Jon didn't know, but he felt sure he was being deliberately sidetracked from whatever it was.

He could see the back of Elizabeth's dark head as he approached the table, bent toward Elias. They were having a hushed but, from the look on Elias's face, intense conversation.

"What are the two of you plotting?" Jon said lightly.

Elizabeth turned to look up at him. "I was just telling Elias we might as well skip the last couple courses and head upstairs."

"And I was telling Elizabeth she should have raised the possibility before the waiter took the cork out." Elias gestured tersely at the freshly opened bottle.

"Did you even warn him he'd be committing to two hours of dinner? Jon," she turned to where he was hovering uncertainly, half in his seat, "wouldn't you rather get out of here so we can actually talk privately?"

"You've made your opinion clear," Elias said sourly, "if you could stop trying to influence him-"

Elizabeth, ignoring Elias, leaned toward Jon, seizing his hands across the table. Her elbows rested on the tabletop. His, having had the inclination beaten out of him as a child, hovered a couple inches above. "Jon, I can't allow this to go on any longer--you're such a nice man. I've got something shocking you need to know about this little summit Elias arranged." Jon matched her grave expression, listening. "It's all been an attempt to use his money to intimidate you."

Jon looked toward Elias, who had folded his arms and was looking upward in exasperation. "No, I got that much," he assured her.

"Watch--next, he's going to bring up the price of that bottle of wine, and the monetary value of whatever we don't eat."

"Huh."

"Oh, for god's-"

"I just thought you should be prepared, you know, in case he decides to influence you _his_ way."

"And yet you've never objected to me picking up the tab." Elias was wearing that expression again--that Jon had never seen on him before this evening, but that Elizabeth evoked so readily. The weird pity he'd felt earlier returned.

"It's flattering in a way, I suppose. That I'm worth intimidating," Jon said.

"So Jon," Elias said briskly, "what are we doing? Stay or go? This is your show, after all."

Now that Jon knew he'd eventually get his answers, he could be magnanimous. He reached for the bottle. "I don't like letting things go to waste. Is that alright with you, Elizabeth?"

"You're too nice to him." But she was smiling.

"What was I thinking introducing you?" Elias muttered to himself. "You're awful together."

A waiter appeared, uncaged two fighting cocks on their table, exsanguinated the champion, and they shared its blood.

Jon having taken Elias's side shifted something in the mood at the table. Elias handed his phone around so they could flick through pictures of his terrier. Elizabeth narrated the thirty step process to sneak out of a Swiss girls' school to go drinking. Jon nearly told them about the neighbor boy who'd died in his place, but instead told them about a summer spent caddying at Lyme Regis. They recognized it. How the three of them could like each other better and better by the minute without actually sharing anything substantial was a social miracle Jon had never experienced before.

The wine probably had something to do with it, Jon thought, watching tears bead on Elizabeth's lashes as she described Sakis Spiros' gnarled craftsman's hands. Looked awkwardly aside, he caught Elias watching the two of them, chin in his hand, an odd look on his face. Like they were a movie that had touched his heart. Not sure which of the three of them he was embarrassed for, Jon turned back to her, blushing.

Later, he followed them out of the restaurant, coat draped over his arm, and through the hotel. It felt different than it had before, because he was a bit drunk, and the hotel seemed disappointed in him for letting himself get into this state. It was a beautiful, orderly place. Things were upright. Large things balanced confidently on narrow things. It made him feel wobblier by comparison. Nervous that, against his own volition, he'd do something like piss against a wall or whip a potted plant around his head like a hammer throw.

Elias and Elizabeth led confidently because they both knew the way. They were walking side by side, slightly ahead of him. For a moment their strides synced, with her right hand on the backswing at the same moment his left was. Jon had the stupidest impulse to step between them, and take a hand in each of his like a child. He did stand between them on the elevator ride up, relaxed against the rail, and they chatted across him. That, too, was reminiscent of childhood. Of adults talking above his head about things he didn't understand and didn't need to worry about.

When Elizabeth pressed him against the inside of the door to their room, her mouth flattening his lips into his teeth, he finally realized he'd badly misunderstood. Her tongue was inside his mouth in the next instant, moving purposefully. She'd kicked off her heels upon entering, so she wasn't much taller than he was. Past her head, he caught sight of Elias, who gave him an encouraging nod.

Of course, Jon thought hopelessly, he was the only one surprised by this development.

The pit of his jaw was sore by the time she pulled away, Jon still combing his memory of dinner for the missed signal. Was a word dropped when a loud group passed their table? Had he actually accidentally agreed to this?

Elizabeth's hands slid from his shoulders to his hands, clasping them winsomely. She tugged him forward, him nearly tripping over his overcoat, which had dropped from his fingers at some point. He untangled his feet, swallowed. Her dress fell to the floor, revealing a matched set of underwear, like women wore in catalogs.

Two sentences collided on the way out of his mouth, the words tangled up, and he heard himself say "I've been a mistake."

His hands were in hers again, and she said, "You've been _lovely._"

Ridiculous, he thought, high-stepping over her dress so he wouldn't trip again. Lovely?

She fell backward onto the grey bedspread, a snap of her arms tumbling him along on top of her. She crawled backwards, mouth kissing his and retreating, then tugging him forward to kiss again. It was like the conversation at dinner--so deftly managed, it was like being led in a dance.

Jon became aware, out of the corner of his eye, of Elias moving a chair to the side of the bed to sit and observe them. He wanted to snap, "Are you going to just sit there and watch?" then realized, of course, the answer was _yes._ Elizabeth had a hand on the back of his neck, her tongue, once again, deep in his mouth.

Years ago, one of the ideas Jon had considered for his thesis had been sex rituals, but the research he'd had available hadn't been as recent, robust, or interesting as he would have wanted. Was that what this was? This wasn't how sex normally happened-- between strangers, with your boss _watching._ He knew that much, at least. But he didn't feel anything. Aside from Elizabeth's invading tongue. Her nails against the back of his neck, pulling his shoulder blades toward each other. But nothing...transformative.

You do know how to do this, he told himself sternly. You're not _obligated_ to make an idiot of yourself. He slipped his mismatched thumbs beneath the band of her bra, skimmed her nipples. Georgie had liked that. Elizabeth seemed to, as well. She leaned back, finally letting his mouth loose and arching her chest into his touch. The motion let her breasts fall loose of the cups. There was no color difference between her chest and the rest of her body. No line--like a stencil--where golden freckles gave way to milk-pale flesh like Georgie'd had. Her nipples were as white as the rest of her skin, marble-hard. No river map of veins across her breasts. Was that normal?

He pushed the bra the rest of the way up. She picked up the motion, and pulled it off over her head, flinging it to one side.

It was his turn again. He lowered his mouth to the plane between her breasts and drew a line of dry kisses down, down, down past her navel to the edge of her underwear. Very lightly, he rolled his lips over the edge and tugged downward.

"Well done, Jon."

Jon felt a furious flush crawl over his neck. He nearly turned to snap at Elias, but Elizabeth was still looking down at Jon expectantly as if she hadn't heard him. Oh, he realized. It's like the thing with the menu. Shut him out instead of rewarding his bad behavior by reacting. Jon bent and continued working the underwear down a centimeter at a time, first one hip, then the other. He eventually eased the panties the rest of the way off with his hands. Elizabeth's silence didn't feel impatient, but he was eager to get it done.

Looking down, he blinked. Her mound was completely hairless, her outer labia beneath suedey and slightly puckered. He felt a bit relieved, having found a part of her flesh that had a texture. It seemed another point in favor of her being human, though it wasn't as though he had a mental library of monster vaginas for comparison. He lowered his mouth toward her, preparing himself to do the sort of thing he'd once done for Georgie.

She stopped him with a hand on his cheek. "There's no need to do that."

There was never a literal _need_ for oral sex, but it sounded like he was being told to stop. He raised his head and smiled, hoping his relief wasn't too obvious.

"I'm ready now," she went on, tugging him back over her by the collar, and he could feel his smile collapse.

"I-I...Elizabeth," he said apologetically, "I didn't bring a condom." Georgie had once laughed at him--said he said the word like it had a hyphen in the middle.

"Under the circumstances, I hardly think we need one."

The circumstances. Well. Fine. Circumstances.

She started kissing him again. Not particularly tonguey this time, needing her concentration to push his jacket back from his shoulders, unbutton his shirt. He was very conscious of his bare, pockmarked skin as she peeled the shirt down his arms. Of Elias's eyes on his skin. She detached herself from his lips again, then rolled them both over, so he was on his back and she straddling his legs. He noticed she was especially beautiful from this angle, like looking up at one of the marbles in the Ashmolean, larger than life.

She finished stripping him, and started working to get him erect, gently toying with his foreskin and head with soft fingers. He could feel it starting to work, pleasure spreading through him like warm oil. He looked down towards her to see his penis all but leap straight, her parted lips descending to engulf the head. As her lips closed around him, she looked up at him, and her eyes were far away. Silent, eyes remote, she didn't seem like the same person he'd laughed over dinner with. Her mouth was cool, pulling at his flesh. Pulling his blood to the surface. He threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. It was black or dark gray. It could be a starless sky.

He tried not to think about the fact Elias was watching him receive a blow job. Elias could see the side of his naked body and all the parts of his penis that weren't currently inside his "dear friend." And worse than being looked at naked was being looked at in a state of growing arousal. His hands fisted in the covers beneath him as he struggled to regulate his breathing. Struggled to keep his hips still.

Jon wondered, desperately, if "there's no need to do that" would work on Elizabeth. Looking for somewhere to look, his eyes caught Elias's. Another slight smile and nod. Jon pushed his hands hard against his face, his body electric with alarm.

_This feeling's the point, right?_ Jon thought desperately. _I'm going to learn something or become something by enduring this._

This wasn't like hurtling through the air, at least, when he couldn't breathe. When his heart had pounded a three-legged gallop against the inside of his ribs that had felt like it'd break his sternum. It didn't hurt like the burn. Or at all. Aside from not expecting or wanting it, it actually felt really nice.

He lowered his hands, opened his eyes. There was nothing good to focus on. He didn't want to look Elias in the face again. He didn't like the sight of his foreshortened body, hills of smooth, lumpy, and ragged textures, the sight of Elizabeth crouching over his pelvis like a cat eating chicken skin from the kitchen floor. She noticed him looking at her, and let her mouth pop off the end of his penis. She crawled forward on her knees, then, in a smooth motion, lowered her vagina to engulf his erection.

Jon sucked in a deep, steadying breath through his mouth as she began to pump herself up and down on him. He wasn't sure whether it was his anxiety lending a frantic edge to his body's pleasure, or the way her internal anatomy was gripping him, but it felt like this would be over much more quickly than when he masturbated.

Elias made a disapproving noise. "He should be on top. He's got to do it himself."

Elizabeth froze mid-bounce, smoothly changed tack at the words. She arched theatrically, rolling her head back in a full rotation, mouth dropping open and eyes fluttering shut, before falling forward to cover Jon, letting his penis spring free. Before he'd realized her intent, she'd rolled them over once more.

Jon raised himself on his hands, looking down at her. And who the hell _was_ she to Elias that he could tell her how to have sex?

She kissed Jon again, and he wanted to tell her to stop it. He could already feel himself wilting, and the longer the delay in getting his penis back inside her, the slimmer the chance he'd actually be able to.

Elizabeth helped him slide into her, crooking her legs to either side, and reaching down with one hand to part her inner labia for him, letting out a moan as he fumbled his way inside. Jon thrust rhythmically, mind going back to some video clip he'd glanced over a classmate's shoulder a long time ago--a muscular orange back and buttocks rippling as the man thrust into some mostly-hidden smaller person. A motion like a dolphin swimming. There hadn't been any sound that Jon remembered, but if there had been, it would probably have sounded like Elizabeth's repetitive cycle of mmm uh ahhh.

Distracted by noticing the cycle, Jon felt himself softening again, and slipped out of her. Swearing under his breath, he jerked himself hastily back to hardness and slid back in. The cycle of mmm uh ahhh began again. There was a pattern to how she moved, as well. Head left, head back, arch back, fist hand in hair, roll head back to left. It made him think of the way he counted backwards by sevens when he masturbated.

She was gone. Not the way Georgie had gone, when she'd gotten close to orgasm, eyes squeezed shut, sinking deep into herself, but the opposite. She'd vacated her body, and her body was rattling on without her.

One person, at least, was still present in the room, barely visible in the corner of Jon's eye, completely still in his attention. There was not the furtive movement of an arm. There was not the whisper of a sleeve bushing trouser leg. There was not the sound of breath speeding to a pant.

What there was instead, was a lack of these things. A specific, intentional lack that was more laden with..._interest_ than if Elias had been stroking himself shamelessly.

Jon felt Elias crawl in through the broken places in his skin to look at the private insides of him. Measure the contents of his stomach and bladder, pluck at the muscles pulling his balls taut, pry open his cheeks to assess his asshole. The looking wasn't for the pleasure of it, because there could be nothing pleasing about the sight. Elias looked for the invasion of it. There was no dilution of humiliation shared or comfort to be had from her. She was gone and he was alone under the Watcher's gaze, sweating and straining to finish this stupid task so they could all leave.

It finally hit him that there had never been any point to any part of the evening except Elias's good time.

The next thing Jon knew, he was leaning against the inside of the bathroom door, fumbling the lock closed.

It took him a moment to remember springing off of her and bolting so quickly he'd dragged one of the sheets across the floor, hooked to his foot. His heart was beating a shallow, irregular rhythm.

Jon unlocked the door, because he didn't want Elias to think he was afraid, and then relocked it because he _was_ afraid.

There was complete quiet on the other side of the door. No one called after him. No one knocked. That wasn't normal.

None of it had been normal.

Jon realized he was still wearing his goddamned _socks,_ and smothered a hopeless laugh into his hand. He wanted to bite what remained of the ball of his thumb until he tasted wet salt, sink his teeth into the webbing between his thumb and his index finger, but the skin was still delicate and burn-tender, and he knew better.

As the water hit him, he smelled his own anxiety and nothing of her.

He hadn't had to do _any_ of it, had he? If he'd fought, he could have gotten away at any point, couldn't he, but he wouldn't have had to fight, if he'd just said anything. Or if he'd stayed silent and still and just not fucking cooperated. Because he _had_ cooperated. He'd put his tongue in her mouth, kissed her body, had been ready to go down on her. He'd fallen out and put himself back inside her _twice,_ for god's sake.

Standing under the lukewarm shower spray, away from Elias and Elizabeth, he didn't know how he'd ever entertained the possibility there was some sort of mystical purpose to the two of them having sex. More than that, he couldn't believe that he actually _had_ thought it. Had he really trusted Elias? Could he really have been that tantalized by...what had Elias even promised? An upgrade? Something like that. An expansion of faculties? He couldn't have really believed it--that Elias would ever do something just because Jon wanted it or needed it.

Then why? Why had he let it happ--no, why had he done it? Because she seemed to want it?

Jon scrubbed his scalp punishingly, as if he could reach inside his skull and scrape the pathetic parts of himself out.

Was that it? Had he really been so desperate for her to keep liking him over Elias? That didn't feel right either, but he was running out of possible explanations for his behavior.

He rinsed the suds out of his hair. Dragged his fingers down his face, feeling the pitted chill of his skin. There was one hole, in his left cheek, that was very deep. It still ached when his finger touched it. Jon thought it looked like a furrow cut into a carton of yogurt, showing the strawberry at the bottom. His index finger rubbed the edge. He considered pushing his fingers into his cheeks, until they broke through into the warmth of his mouth. Then thought about himself collapsed over the toilet of _this_ bathroom, blood pouring from his mouth like vomit, with Elias standing over him, clucking his tongue over the mess Jon had made of himself again.

Jon pulled his hands away from his face with an effort, twisted them into the washcloth instead.

He made messes of himself. Elias made him make messes of himself. But Elias never forced him. There were traps. Walls gradually narrowing driving him one direction or another with weights hidden above ready to drop, but he was never _forced._ He had to keep walking forward or the traps wouldn't work. He had to follow along where led. Maybe Jon did keep doing these things to himself. Maybe it was completely unfair to hold Elias responsible for Jon's own gullibility and pliability.

Fine! He was unfair, then. On top of being pliable and gullible, and honestly just stupid, he was unfair, but he was also furious and he'd rather hurt Elias than hurt himself.

The thought of the knife in his coat pocket got him out of the shower, dried, dressed in one of the soft pewter colored dressing gowns the hotel provided, and back into the bedroom.

Elizabeth was gone, the only sign she'd ever existed the rumpled blanket and the sheet still trailing from bed toward bathroom, like an arrow pointed at Jon. Elias was waiting in the same chair by the bed, looking at a newspaper he'd gotten from somewhere.

Jon collected his scattered clothes and dressed quickly, careless of Elias's presence. He checked his reflection in the full length mirror on the closet and found the suit didn't show any crumpling from having been so heedlessly discarded. Jon looked no different than he had setting out from his own flat earlier. Perhaps a little better, because of the flattering lighting.

"Ready to check out, then?"

"I don't want to stay here."

Elias stood, folding his paper under his arm. "It's complimentary," he explained, misinterpreting Jon's glare.

"Well! Why not grab the toothpaste while you're at it."

"You're free to," Elias said. "I already got my money's worth." He handed Jon his coat, Jon slipping his hand into the right pocket the moment he had it. Predictably, the knife was missing. Jon reached into the other pocket instead, found his rolled up tie and put it on.

They went down to the lobby together to turn in the key and pay. The same ponytailed concierge checked them out.

Elias walked briskly out into the night, trailed by Jon.

"I think I'll follow you to the station," Elias said genially, slowing and turning to wait for Jon "The wine went to my head. The walk would do me some good."

"Why did you do that?" Jon asked from the pit of his stomach, with the fullness of his lungs, with all the fury the still-human parts of him had. The question was nearly solid, pouring out of his mouth. It should have knocked Elias backwards.

It didn't.

Elias smiled. "Excellent! That was the strongest one yet!"

Jon turned instead toward the river. For all his attempt at compulsion had done, it had stolen what felt like that last of his energy. He wanted very much to be alone.

"Well, Jon," Elias went on, trailing a few steps behind, "I noticed a lot of your problems come from your letting yourself be tyrannized by women."

Jon could not begin to contend with that. He trudged silently onward. Elias followed, needing no invitation to elaborate.

"The thought occurred to me when you interceded with Melanie on my behalf. I noticed you were talking to her like a peer or subordinate, when you're her superior. You don't seem to have the same problem with Tim or Martin."

The river was ahead. The rail was low. Jon thought about how low it was, and about how close Elias might let himself get to it. It smelled like the tide was out.

"No wonder she's been exhibiting discipline problems," Elias went on, "As I thought about it, it became clear this has been the common thread in all of your recent struggles. You were unable to assert yourself with Daisy or Nikola or even with your friend Georgie."

"Georgie is none of your fucking business!"

"I saw you reduced to recording statements on the sly like a naughty child sneaking candy," Elias went on mildly. "I don't understand your refusal to put your foot down about the importance of your work."

"It's her house, Elias! She has every right to-"

"Yes, and it's her _world_ that's going to get scrambled into nonsense by the Unknowing if you're not ready in time."

"If you wanted me ready, you had your chance tonight. I was here! I trus--I _wanted_ to...become someone who can do this. It's why I came."

"Exactly, Jon!" Elias said. "Exactly. You wanted to become a man!"

"I've been a man," Jon said blankly. "That's not-" Useless. Absolutely useless. He turned and continued heavily away from Elias.

"Oh, but it is! You continually relate to women childishly instead of as a adult." Jon picked up speed. Would Elias chase him if he started running? "You ran to Georgie to save you--the woman who denied you and cuckolded you for three years." No, just shout. A couple sitting on a bench looked in their direction. Jon slowed. "Don't you have any pride? You relied on Basira to rescue you from Daisy--what was your plan B, Jon? Kneel in the dirt and beg? It didn't look like it was working from where I was sitting. And then, of course, Mummy Distortion had to save you from the Circus."

"She only did what you should've!"

"No, Jon. She did what _you_ should've." Elias's hand fell on his shoulder, and Jon shook it free. Doubt was chipping at his anger. Elias's calm litany sounded so much more reasonable than it should. He charged on, head down, Elias matching his stride. "My role, Jon, is to introduce you to experiences that force you to grow. My hope was knowing a woman would destroy some of their mystique for you, so you'd be able to deal with them with maturity and composure."

"Don't pretend that's what tonight was about, when--" _when you were salivating over us. Over me._ Jon stopped, intuiting Elias would laugh at him if he accused him of lusting over them. It wasn't that, or it wasn't mostly that, anyway, but Jon didn't understand what it _had_ been. If he'd been able to force Elias to tell him his reasons, would he even have been able to understand them?

"Alright, I confess," Elias took advantage of Jon's despairing silence. "It was also about the food. I dislike dining alone, especially on a weekend. Did you enjoy that part at least? It seemed as though you did."

Jon didn't answer. It felt like dinner had been months ago.

"The food, the wine, the company--it was good, wasn't it? You know, Elizabeth enjoyed herself as well. I could tell she found you genuinely entertaining."

He hated the tiny part of himself that cared.

"She had to call it an early night," Elias went on kindly, "but she did want you to know she was quite impressed with you. We agreed you acquitted yourself admirably for a virgin."

Jon turned back, close enough to Elias to bite. "Shut. Up. Never speak of tonight again."

"Jon, wait!" Elias hurried after him, "You forgot something." Jon turned, saw Elias was holding Melanie's knife toward him.

"It must have fallen out of your coat pocket," Elias lied. Jon took it, careful not to brush fingers. "See you bright and early Monday."

When the stilted feminine tones of the speaker announced his stop, Jon realized he'd been so deep in thought he didn't remember a single moment of the ride home. He pulled himself to his feet, hand over hand, on the pole at the end of the bench and shuffled onto the platform.

Elias had been right about one thing: There was something not fully formed or not firmly set about him. Or, Jon considered, climbing to street level, leaning heavily on the rail, there was something missing in him. Something he'd used to take for granted.

And not his so-called goddamned virginity.

Jon let himself in, hung his coat, and let the pieces of his suit drop across the floor as he headed toward his bed. The little lamp he kept on all hours was beaming a homely orange glow. The scuffs in the greyish plaster walls, the stale odor of his sheets as he fell into bed, had never been so comforting.

His mind wouldn't quiet.

If he'd been rude to Elizabeth...if he _had_ compelled her. If he'd been less rude to Elias. If he hadn't laughed at Elizabeth's mockery. If he hadn't approved the second bottle of wine. If he hadn't apologized. If he had decided to go upstairs sooner. If he'd asked what was meant by upstairs. If he'd managed for just a moment to be a fraction of the disagreeable fuck he'd always thought he was.

Jon rolled onto his back, arched from his head to his toes. An agonized sound started in the back of his throat, and then cut off abruptly when he remembered that Elias could be looking even now.

It was _done._ It was over. The next time someone tried to get him to do something like that, he'd be prepared.

_You never are, though._

Jon threw himself upright, then rolled forward in bed to snag the hem of his trousers and drag them towards him. His phone. He could read something on his phone until he fell asleep. Unpocketing it, he saw a few missed messages. Oh, right. The ringer was off.

He saw a conversation with Melanie had its first new messages in months.

Melanie: hey, check in when you see this  
Melanie: are you taking care of my knife?  
Melanie: has it tasted blood?  
Jon: I'll give it back Monday. Thank you.

It was late and felt later. Jon had his arm flung across his eyes, trying to quiet his brain when the phone chimed.

Melanie: keep it. It's not my best  
Jon: Thank you.

He realized he'd thanked her twice in a row. Fabulous. Maybe Elias had a point about him and women.

Melanie: so what did he want?

Jon's thumbs, one smooth, one scarred and wasted, hovered above the screen. Finally he wrote.

Jon: He just wanted to assert himself.

In a flurry--

Melanie: don't like the sound of that!  
Melanie: assert himself HOW?  
Melanie: they said he's hard on you

Jon rubbed his eyes, the phone on his chest chiming. He'd hoped to sound dry, but he'd forgotten how hard it was to convey tone in text. Emojis. Emojis were the key.

Melanie: wait fuck  
Melanie: you don't have to say  
Melanie: what do you want to do?

_you don't have to say..._Oh, goddamnit!

Her typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared. He waited for it to vanish for good. Could he pretend to have fallen asleep? He didn't want to talk about it. God, what had the others told Melanie about his problems with Elias? It probably sounded much worse than it was. He shouldn't let her worry.

Jon: I'm fine. :) Nothing significant has changed.

And there was the typing bubble again. And gone. And back. And gone. And Jon was getting frustrated with himself, rereading his last message. It really was a charitable act to attempt to talk to him, wasn't it? There was a right thing to say to her if he could just...

Jon: We're going to get him.

That was it.

Melanie: yes!!!  
Melanie: sleep tight. we'll talk later.

But Jon didn't sleep for a long time.


End file.
